Your Step in Spring

Chapter 6 – The Word Between Us

The new semester began with sun-bright mornings and students dragging their feet back into routine. Posters for fall events were already taped across the walls—sports tournaments, class trips, and the school writing contest.

Airi noticed the flyer for the contest on the board outside the teacher's office.

> "Theme: Unspoken Feelings

Max 2,000 words. Deadline: End of the month."

She stood in front of it longer than she meant to.

"You should enter," said a voice behind her.

She turned. Akira.

"You're still good at appearing out of nowhere."

He smirked. "You're still easy to spot when you're thinking too hard."

She hesitated. "It's just… a school contest."

"You write better than most published authors."

"That's generous."

"It's true."

She looked at the flyer again. Then at him. "Are you entering?"

He shrugged. "Only if you are."

---

In class that day, Airi spent most of the morning scribbling half-lines in her notebook. The teacher's lecture about symbolism drifted in and out of her ears like background music.

Across the aisle, Akira was sketching something in his margins—something geometric, like puzzle pieces.

When their eyes met, he didn't look away.

---

After school, they sat in the library again, both staring at blank pages.

"Unspoken feelings," Airi murmured. "How do you write about something you've never said?"

Akira replied without looking up. "Maybe you don't write about it. Maybe you just… write it."

Airi tapped her pen against her knee. "Is that what you're doing?"

"No," he said. "I'm trying not to overthink what you might be writing."

She blushed. "Then don't."

"I'm failing."

---

Over the next few days, their writing took shape.

Airi wrote about two characters who exchanged stories instead of words. The girl stitched her emotions into metaphors. The boy replied with borrowed lines and silence.

Akira's story was different. His protagonist wasn't quiet. He wanted to speak—but always at the wrong time.

He always hesitated when it mattered most.

---

They didn't read each other's drafts.

But there were moments—pauses between paragraphs, shared glances across the table—that said more than their writing ever could.

One afternoon, Airi paused mid-sentence and asked, "If you could say one thing out loud to someone, and know they'd hear you—but you could never say anything else after that—what would it be?"

Akira thought for a long moment. Then quietly said, "Don't leave."

She didn't ask who the words were for.

Because she already knew.

---

The night before the submission deadline, it rained again.

Airi sat at her desk, staring at her finished story.

She'd written it honestly. Too honestly.

She wondered if it was selfish to hope someone—one person—would read it and know it was meant for them.

In the last paragraph, her character finally wrote:

> "Even if you never speak the word,

I've heard it in everything you've never said."

She closed the laptop.

And cried, softly.

Not from sadness.

But from the overwhelming weight of almost.

---

The next morning, they submitted their stories without fanfare. The librarian collected them in a folder marked "Writing Contest Entries."

Airi watched Akira slide his in first.

He looked calm. As always.

But when she placed hers beside his, their papers brushed.

And in that tiny motion, something real passed between them.

---

A week later, their homeroom teacher made an announcement.

"Two of our students have been selected as finalists in the school-wide contest," she said. "Airi Tachibana and Akira Hayasaka."

Gasps. Applause. A few curious glances.

Airi froze.

Akira looked at her, then leaned slightly and whispered, "Guess we're both louder than we thought."

---

The awards ceremony was set for the following week.

Finalists would read excerpts of their stories in front of the school.

The idea made Airi feel like her lungs were shrinking.

"I can't do that," she told Akira after class.

"Yes, you can."

"I'll mess up. I'll—"

"You won't," he interrupted gently.

"But what if—"

"You wrote the truth. You don't need to perform it. Just let it speak for itself."

She looked at him.

And for the first time, she believed it might be true.

---

On the day of the reading, the auditorium buzzed with energy. Airi stood backstage with her printed pages trembling in her hands.

When her name was called, her feet moved before she was ready.

The microphone was too tall. She adjusted it with shaky fingers.

Then she looked into the crowd.

Akira was there.

Not clapping. Not smiling.

Just looking at her like she wasn't invisible.

She took a deep breath.

And read.

---

Afterward, Akira approached her quietly.

"You did it."

"I don't remember anything I said."

"That's fine. I remember all of it."

She blushed, looking down.

He handed her something—a small, folded paper.

She opened it.

Inside was a single sentence from his story.

> "The word I never said? It's always been you."

Her breath caught.

She looked up.

Akira wasn't smiling.

He was serious.

"Airi," he said, voice steady. "You don't have to say anything. Not now."

She didn't.

She folded the paper carefully, holding it to her chest.

But her eyes said what her lips couldn't.

---

That evening, she rewrote the final paragraph of her story.

She changed just one line.

> "Even if you never said the word… I said it first."