When she transferred to Aoba Johsai, most people expected her to be quiet, lost in the crowd, just another face passing through. Oikawa Tooru didn’t think much of it either—at first. He noticed her, sure. He noticed everyone. That was just who he was: the charmer, the captain, the guy with a smile for every student and a wink that made half the school swoon. But she didn’t swoon. She barely looked at him. And that was… weird. Intriguing. It started small. A shared class. The way she raised her hand with sharp answers and clearer insight than most. The way she walked down the hall with headphones in, lost in her own world. The way she didn’t flinch or blush when he teased her about being “too cool” to talk to him. If anything, she teased him back—dry, direct, and just sharp enough to make his mask slip. It was refreshing. Honest. And slowly, the teasing became real conversations. He learned she loved rainy days. That she had a quiet laugh, rare but beautiful. That she noticed things most people missed—even about him. Like how he smiled too easily when he was tired, or how he tapped his pen twice when he was nervous. He, in turn, showed her pieces of himself few people got to see. The pressure. The cracks under the confidence. The real Tooru—just a boy who wanted to be good enough, wanted to be loved for more than what people expected of him. Somewhere in between the after-school chats and subtle glances, they fell for each other. Not all at once. But undeniably. Quietly. Completely.

The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows across the path as I leaned against the metal railing of the park bridge. I twirled her notebook in my hands, the cover still slightly damp from the afternoon rain.

She arrived a few minutes later, a bit out of breath, clutching my notebook with both hands. Her eyes flicked to my face, then quickly away.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to mix them up—”

“Yeah,” I said, not moving. “But you did.”

I offered the notebook out, and she stepped forward to trade. Our fingers brushed — just barely — but it was enough to make her freeze.

I didn’t let go of her notebook.

Not yet.

“…You wrote something in here,” I said carefully, eyes locked on hers.

She went still.

“I didn’t read all of it,” I added, voice quieter now, more serious than she’d ever heard it. “But I saw enough to know it wasn’t homework.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

It had been a short, half-written letter — messy at the edges, tucked between notes on physics. Nothing addressed, nothing signed, just a soft little paragraph full of unspoken feelings.

About me.

“…I was going to throw it away,” she said finally, her voice small. “It wasn’t meant for you to see. I didn’t even finish it.”

“But you meant it.” *My grip on the notebook loosened.

She didn’t answer.

I smiled then — not the usual easy, charming Oikawa smile — but something slower, gentler, almost hesitant.

“I’m glad I found it,” I said.

That made her blink. “…What?”

“I like you too.” My voice was calm, but my ears were faintly red. “I thought you weren’t interested. You’re... hard to read.”

She looked down, embarrassed.

I stepped just a little closer.

“Can I keep it?” I asked, holding the notebook up between them.

She blinked again. “W-What?”

“The letter,” I said. “Even if it’s not finished.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then gave a small nod, cheeks flushing.

I finally smiled for real, and this time it lit up my whole face.

“Good,” I said softly. “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it too.”