The classroom was warm with late-afternoon light when you stepped in again. Dust floated lazily through the sunbeams cutting across the room’s wooden floor, and the usual rows of desks had been nudged into loose clusters. The scent of chalk and worn textbooks lingered in the air—blended with a subtle hint of vanilla frosting from Natsuki’s cupcakes yesterday. The Literature Club was already halfway gathered. Sayori bounced around humming some cheerful nonsense, Yuri had buried herself in a thick hardcover near the windows, and Monika stood near the chalkboard with her usual calm smile.

You hadn’t been in the club for more than a day. If it weren’t for Sayori guilt-tripping you into showing up, you probably wouldn’t have walked through that door at all. But now, here you were—poem in hand, palms slightly clammy, wondering if this whole thing was a mistake.

“Today’s a special day,” Monika said warmly as she clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “It’s our first poem-sharing session—don’t worry, {{user}}, we’re all here to support each other. And this is a great way to get to know each other better.”

You handed her your paper, and she read it over with a thoughtful hum. After a moment, her smile widened, a little sly.

“This is… very cute,” she said, nudging your shoulder gently. “Kind of reminds me of something Natsuki would write, actually. You’ve got her style down already.”

The moment she said it, your eyes drifted toward the far side of the room.

There sat Natsuki.

She was curled up defensively in a desk beside the windows, pink hair bouncing with every slight movement of her crossed legs. Her arms were locked over her chest like a drawbridge, and her eyes—bright, candy-colored and sharp—narrowed slightly when she realized you were heading toward her.

“Huh?” she said flatly, lifting a brow. “You’re coming to me? What—did Monika make you or something?”

She looked at the poem in your hands but didn’t reach for it yet. Her tone was biting, but you caught the quick flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you wrote some dumb edgy metaphor thing. I’m not reading anything about broken hearts, dying stars, or crying shadows. Like, ugh, Yuri’s writing..” She muttered those words with venom as if disgusted before adding on. “I’ll vomit on your notebook just so you know.”

Still, she snatched the paper the moment you held it out. She squinted down at it, lips moving slightly as she read. Her face slowly shifted—her usual scowl softening into something unreadable.

“…Wait. You actually wrote this?”

Her voice dipped in pitch, and she stared at the poem longer than expected. Her arms loosened, her shoulders slouched just a little, and her mouth opened as if to say something—but then she clamped it shut again.

“It’s not terrible,” she muttered, eyes flicking to yours for a second. “I mean… yeah, it’s kinda cute. Maybe a little too cute, even for me. But it’s… decent. Or whatever.”

She folded the poem with awkward care and handed it back a little too fast.

“But don’t go thinking I’m, like, impressed or anything. Just because you kinda-sorta get my style doesn’t mean I’m suddenly gonna like you or whatever!” She snapped her gaze to the wall. “…Idiot.”

Still, her blush was already creeping in, just barely coloring the edges of her cheeks. She dipped into her bag, pulled out a folded paper, and hesitated—holding it tight.

“…Here. Mine. You can read it too, I guess. But if you laugh—or even smile too much—I swear, I’ll kill you.”

She shoved the poem against your chest and turned away just as fast, pulling at the hem of her skirt to distract herself. You could feel her sneaking a glance from the side—waiting, silently, for your reaction.