Chapter 10 – When Spring Waits Quietly
March arrived with gray skies and the smell of thawing earth. The snow was almost gone, leaving behind patches of wet soil and sleepy trees that hadn't yet remembered how to bloom.
For Akira, it was a strange month—quiet and stretched too long. The days blurred together, and although classes continued, and club meetings resumed, something in the rhythm was off.
Because Airi was not there.
---
They still exchanged their Sunday journal pages—without fail. It had become their ritual, a silent conversation that never broke.
This week, Airi's writing was gentler than usual.
> "I passed a bakery today that reminded me of us.
They had the same buns we bought that snowy afternoon.
I almost bought two.
I didn't.
It didn't feel right without you beside me.
Maybe next time, I will.
Maybe I'll save one for you."
Akira ran his fingers over the lines.
He smiled.
Then replied:
> "Buy it next time. I'll meet you halfway.
We'll eat in a park full of trees that forgot how to bloom until we reminded them."
---
Their communication expanded—quietly.
Now it wasn't just Sundays.
It was a Wednesday evening message:
> "Do you ever dream in black and white?"
A Thursday morning reply:
> "Only when I forget to write before bed."
Sometimes, they'd send photos: scribbled poems, book covers, sunset skies from opposite train stations.
And once—a photo of Airi's hand holding a pencil beside a half-filled teacup.
Akira replied with nothing but a heart drawn on paper, snapped with his fingers beside it.
---
One evening, Akira stayed late at school to help clean up after a club meeting.
When he finally left the building, the sky was dark and starless. He walked past the park gate, his usual shortcut.
There, taped to the lamp post, was a flyer.
> "Interregional Youth Writing Festival – Spring Edition.
Open entries. Theme: 'Letters You Never Sent'."
The deadline was in three weeks.
He thought of their journal.
He thought of Airi's voice.
He thought of everything they'd written that was meant only for each other.
Still, something in him stirred.
Maybe it was time to send a letter to the world.
---
He messaged her that night:
> "Do you want to write something that everyone else can read?"
Her reply came minutes later:
> "Only if we write it together."
---
Over the weekend, they planned the outline on a call that lasted two hours.
A shared document. One story. Two voices.
They would tell it through letters—fictional ones, but based on everything real between them.
A boy who stayed.
A girl who left.
A season that kept them both moving.
---
Each night, one of them wrote a new entry.
Airi wrote with lyricism, her lines flowing like soft rain:
> "I didn't mean to take the warmth with me when I left,
But sometimes I think I packed your voice in my suitcase."
Akira responded with structure and stillness:
> "I left the window open. Not for air.
For the sound of your shoes on pavement, returning."
It became a dance.
Sometimes he'd send three lines. She'd return ten.
Other times, they'd both write and edit each other's paragraphs, carefully crafting sentences that felt like real confessions disguised in metaphor.
By the time the deadline arrived, their story was polished, raw, and filled with unspoken love.
They submitted it without names—just initials:
A & A
Like characters.
Like co-authors.
Like something that didn't need full explanation.
---
A week later, the results came out.
Finalists would be invited to a live reading event in the neighboring city.
Akira stared at the email for ten seconds before calling her.
She picked up breathless.
"I just saw it," she said.
"We're in."
They were quiet for a moment.
Then, in unison:
"We're reading it together."
---
The event was set in mid-April.
The cherry blossoms would likely be blooming by then.
It felt like poetry.
---
The weeks leading up to the reading were filled with anticipation. School became background noise. Even homework didn't bother Akira as much.
He practiced reading the lines aloud—slowly, thoughtfully.
He imagined how she would sound beside him.
Airi sent voice notes of her passages, shyly at first.
He played them again and again.
---
The day before the event, they met again at the halfway café.
Airi wore a navy blue coat. Her hair was longer now. She looked tired—but bright.
Akira was already waiting with two cups of tea.
They sat in their usual spot. No need for greetings.
"This feels unreal," she said.
"I was thinking the same thing," he replied.
"Do you think people will feel what we wrote?"
"They will."
"How do you know?"
"Because we didn't lie."
---
They spent the rest of the day rehearsing.
Not just reading—but feeling the words again.
They made small edits. Moved lines around. Chose when to pause. When to look at each other. When to let silence speak.
By sunset, they were ready.
More than ready.
---
The next morning, the hall was filled with students, teachers, local writers. Akira and Airi sat backstage, listening to the muffled applause from previous readers.
Then: "Next, a collaborative piece by A and A."
Their cue.
They stepped onto the stage.
Akira's hands trembled slightly.
Airi reached for them.
He let her hold them, just for a second.
Then the light hit them, and the microphone hummed.
And they began to read.
---
Their story flowed like a song in two voices:
> "You left in winter,
But I felt the cold only after.
Your name still echoes in empty classrooms."
> "I didn't mean to disappear.
I just followed the wind.
But I never forgot the footsteps I left beside yours."
The audience was silent. Still.
Listening not just with ears—but hearts.
The piece ended on a single line:
> "And if you ask me what love sounds like—
I'll hand you this letter."
Silence.
Then applause.
Loud. Warm. Real.
They bowed together.
Then walked off the stage side by side.
---
Outside, the first sakura petals had begun to fall.
They stood beneath a tree in bloom, not speaking for a moment.
Then Airi whispered, "Do you know what season it is now?"
Akira nodded. "Spring."
She stepped closer.
"You're still the only thing I want to write about."
He smiled.
"Then don't stop."
"I won't."
And this time—
She kissed him.
Not a goodbye.
Not a maybe.
Just a promise in full bloom.
---