Your Step in Spring

Chapter 7 – The Things We Share in Autumn

Autumn arrived quietly, slipping between the folds of summer's warmth and leaving behind the scent of dried leaves and early twilight. The school grounds transformed—vines along the fences turned rust-colored, and students began swapping short sleeves for sweaters.

Airi liked autumn. It wasn't loud like summer or fragile like spring. It was honest. Unapologetic.

And this year, it was different.

---

Since the contest, people had begun to look at Airi differently.

Some classmates approached her during breaks, praising her story. A few girls asked if she wrote for a magazine. One boy even asked her to help with his lyrics for the school band.

She replied politely.

But when Akira passed by her desk, she always smiled just a little more.

---

One Thursday, their homeroom teacher made another announcement:

> "The regional writing competition will open next month. If you're interested, speak to me after class."

Akira leaned over to Airi. "Think we should do a rematch?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you challenging me?"

"Only if you're scared."

She smirked. "You're on."

---

That weekend, they met at the library again. Not for school. Not for clubs. Just… because.

They sat by the window, sunlight pooling across the wooden table.

Airi opened a new notebook, her old one now full.

Akira noticed the cover—dark green, embossed with gold. Elegant.

"You always pick beautiful ones," he said.

"They have to be," she replied. "They hold pieces of me."

He didn't say anything, but he understood.

He pulled a sheet of paper from his own bag. It wasn't a draft. It was a letter.

He slid it across the table.

She looked up.

He nodded once. "You can read it later."

---

She waited until that night.

In her room, with only the desk lamp on, she unfolded the letter.

His handwriting was neat. Calm.

> "There are things I don't know how to say out loud.

Not because I don't want to—but because the words feel too heavy.

But I'll try here.

When I first met you, I didn't think anything would change.

But you kept appearing—in my silence, in my thoughts, in my writing.

You turned everything quiet into something meaningful.

I don't know what this feeling is exactly.

But I don't want it to disappear.

If this is the start of something, I want to walk beside you.

Even if we say nothing. Even if we write instead.

—A."

Airi read it twice.

Then held it to her chest.

Then cried, just a little.

---

The next day, she left her reply on his desk before class started.

It was tucked in a slim envelope, cream-colored, sealed with a pressed autumn leaf.

Inside was a single page.

> "You once asked me if silence is enough forever.

I think the answer is no.

Because now, I want to say the word.

Akira.

I like you.

I don't know how else to put it.

I want to keep writing with you—through seasons, through changes, through everything.

—Airi."

He found it during homeroom.

He didn't look at her, not at first.

But later, during lunch, he walked up to her table with two bottles of hot tea.

He placed one down.

Then, quietly:

"Me too."

---

After that, things didn't explode like in the books.

There were no public declarations. No dramatic gestures.

They simply sat closer.

Their conversations grew softer, more intimate.

Sometimes they texted late into the night—not flirty, but thoughtful. Lines of poetry. Snapshots of moonlight. Notes about characters they might one day write.

---

One afternoon, Airi brought a short story to school.

She handed it to Akira without a word.

He read it that evening.

It was about a girl who carried a lantern through a forest, not to see the path, but to guide someone else who was too afraid to walk alone.

He closed the last page with a smile.

The next day, he brought her his response.

A story about a boy who followed the light—not because he was lost, but because he'd found the only place he ever wanted to go.

---

When the regional contest opened, they both submitted entries.

They didn't compare. They didn't compete.

They simply created.

And waited.

---

October ended with a chill. The sky turned gray more often, and the wind began to taste like winter.

On the final day of the month, the results were posted online.

Airi placed second.

Akira placed third.

When they met that afternoon, she looked nervous.

"I didn't mean to—"

He interrupted her with a smirk. "You're allowed to be better than me."

She blinked.

He continued, "But I'm still going to try and catch up."

She smiled.

"I'll wait," she said.

---

That evening, they sat beneath the red maple tree behind the school. The air was cool, the sky fading into deep blue.

Airi leaned her head on his shoulder.

Neither said a word for a long time.

Then, softly, Akira murmured, "You changed everything."

She whispered back, "So did you."

He turned to her. "What should we write next?"

She thought for a moment.

Then answered, "A story about two people who weren't perfect—but chose each other anyway."

He smiled.

"That sounds like us."

---