Chapter 3 – Where the Petals Fall
It had been exactly fifteen days since Akira handed her that notebook.
Fifteen days since Airi started writing her stories in ink instead of pixels. The new notebook, still crisp, was now half-filled with handwritten scenes. Most of them fictional. Some of them... not quite.
In her newest entry, the male lead no longer remained nameless.
His name was A.
---
On Monday morning, announcements echoed across the school. The annual Spring Cultural Festival was just two weeks away. Posters were already pinned on classroom walls. Each class had to organize an exhibit or performance.
Class 2-B had voted.
"A Cafe."
Predictable. Safe. Boring.
Airi was indifferent. She'd seen school festivals in manga and dramas, but never really participated in one that mattered.
"Let's do a story-themed café," someone suggested. "Like, each table could have a short story or poem."
That caught her attention.
But she didn't raise her hand. As usual.
---
Akira leaned over toward her. "You're thinking something."
She blinked. "What?"
"I can tell. You get this... focused face when you're mentally editing something."
Airi flushed. "You make that sound creepy."
"Just observant."
She paused. "...It's not a bad idea."
"The café?"
"The story theme."
He smirked. "Then say it louder next time."
Airi looked away. "I don't like crowds."
"You don't have to like them. You just need one person to hear you."
Their eyes met for a second too long.
She looked down again.
---
During lunch, while most students were outside, Airi stayed back to help the class rep organize the supply list.
Akira lingered.
"Do you think people actually read the poems they'll find on the tables?" she asked quietly, flipping through the festival plan.
"Probably not all of them," he replied, arms crossed, leaning back on the desk beside her. "But someone might."
"Someone?"
"Someone who's tired of pretending they like small talk. Someone looking for something real."
Airi considered that.
"…That sounds like something you'd say in a story."
He shrugged. "Or maybe I just want to read yours on a café table."
She laughed once—soft, surprised.
---
In the days leading up to the festival, decorations started filling the halls. Paper lanterns, streamers, sakura-shaped origami.
One afternoon, Airi stayed late to finish cutting folded pink paper into petal shapes. Everyone else had gone home.
Except Akira.
He sat on the floor beside her, folding cranes with mild disinterest.
"You're bad at this," she noted.
"Obviously. I don't have a poet's hands."
She watched him attempt another fold. It was crooked. Unapologetically so.
"You're not patient enough."
"Maybe. Or maybe my hands were meant for something else."
Airi raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, after a beat: "To catch falling things before they break."
She stopped folding.
Her hands trembled slightly.
---
That weekend, the class gathered to rehearse their setup. Akira had volunteered to build the booth frame. Airi was in charge of designing the mini story cards placed on each table.
Her hands brushed against Akira's when passing him a stack of printed quotes.
He didn't move away.
Neither did she.
"You're different during this kind of stuff," she murmured.
"How?"
"Less... quiet. More honest."
He chuckled. "Maybe because you're not like the others."
"How am I different?"
"You don't try to make me perfect."
Airi's heart beat faster than usual.
She turned away, afraid it would show.
---
By the night before the festival, the classroom had been transformed into a cozy café. Soft lighting. Folded books on tables. Cups ready to be filled with jasmine tea. On each seat, a card waited with a line of poetry or prose.
Airi had stayed up till 2 a.m. writing them by hand.
One card read:
> "Sometimes, silence is the loudest kind of love."
Another:
> "Even if I can't say it, I still hope you'll stay."
She slid one special card into the center table.
It read simply:
> "A—
Thank you for listening even when I never spoke.
—S."
She didn't sign her real name.
She didn't have to.
---
The festival arrived with sun and noise and too many people. Parents. Students from other schools. Children running in the halls.
Akira stood at the entrance to their café wearing a white button-up, rolled sleeves, and the bored expression of someone who didn't want to be noticed but couldn't help standing out.
Airi sat near the back, rearranging the cards in quiet patterns.
A group of girls giggled at Akira as he handed them menus. One asked to take a photo. He refused, politely but firmly.
After they left, he walked to Airi's table.
"They asked if I was the 'boy from the writing cards.'"
She tensed. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. But they said whoever wrote those cards must've been in love."
Airi turned away. "They're just lines. Fiction."
"Sure," he replied. "But fiction's born from truth, isn't it?"
He didn't press further.
He didn't need to.
---
When the festival ended, students began cleaning up. The classroom was filled with laughter and noise.
Akira and Airi stayed late again.
As they folded decorations, he spoke up.
"I read all the cards."
Her hands paused.
"The one on the center table," he said. "It wasn't signed."
She didn't answer.
He walked closer.
"You don't have to say anything. But... thank you."
She looked up at him, uncertain.
"For what?" she asked.
"For writing things I didn't know how to say."
A pause.
Then, without thinking, Airi reached into her notebook and tore out a page.
She held it to him, folded twice.
He took it.
---
That night, Akira sat at his desk under the soft glow of his lamp.
He unfolded the paper.
It wasn't a letter. It was a scene.
> "The boy stood under the cherry blossom tree,
and for the first time, he didn't wish to be alone.
The girl didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Their silence was already loud enough."
He smiled to himself.
And for the first time in a long time, spring didn't feel like something to survive.
It felt like something to remember.
---