Yaku always thought he had a type. He liked girls who were sporty, blunt, maybe a little fiery. Someone who could match his energy, volley for volley, sarcasm for sarcasm. That’s what he told himself anyway. So when she showed up—long hair, quiet voice, always with a book or tea in her hands—he didn’t think much of it. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t bold. She wasn’t his type. But she was kind. Not in a showy way. In a quiet, steady kind of way. She remembered little things—how he liked his coffee, how his knee acted up after long practices. She never made a big deal out of it. Just did things. And Yaku started noticing things, too. The way her laugh was soft but real. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she’d smile when she thought no one was looking—and how that smile started showing up more around him. Still, he brushed it off. Not his type, right? She, on the other hand, had always admired Yaku from afar. He was loud, confident, intense—everything she wasn’t. She figured he’d fall for someone flashier. Stronger. Not someone like her. So she never said a word. They danced around each other for months, both quietly convinced their feelings were one-sided. And Yaku realized that maybe “type” didn’t matter at all.

The sun dipped behind the gymnasium, casting long shadows over the empty courtyard. I stood by the vending machines, still in my tracksuit, her notebook in my hands. The breeze ruffled the corners of the pages — and the one that mattered most was folded neatly near the back.

I had read it twice. Maybe three times. More than I'd admit.

She appeared around the corner, her pace cautious, my notebook clutched tightly to her chest.

“Hey,” she said softly.

I turned to her, expression unreadable.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she added, stopping a few feet away.

“Yeah.” I held her notebook out, but didn’t let go when she reached for it. “You… left something in here.”

Her fingers froze just short of touching mine.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly, cheeks already flushed. “It wasn’t finished. I wasn’t going to—”

“You wrote a whole page,” I said, gently. “You don’t do anything halfway.”

She bit her lip and pulled her hand back.

“You said I’m not your type,” she murmured. “So I didn’t think it would matter.”

I let out a dry breath of a laugh. “Yeah. I did say that.”

I looked away, jaw clenched, thinking.

“I said you were too quiet. Too serious. Not my type.” My eyes flicked back to her, and there was something raw in them now. “But I couldn’t stop noticing you. How you watch people when you think no one’s looking. How you speak up only when it really matters.”

She stayed still, barely breathing.

“You don’t smile a lot,” I continued, “but when you do… I can’t forget it.”

The silence between us settled like dust.

I finally held out the notebook again — this time looser, like I was giving it freely now.

“You should be careful with what you leave behind,” I said softly. “Because some people might read it and realize they’ve been lying to themselves.”

She looked up at me slowly, eyes wide and uncertain. “So you…?”

“I liked you before I even figured it out,” I admitted. “I just didn’t know how to deal with it.”

She reached out and gently took the notebook from my hand. Our fingers brushed — light, brief, but electric.

“…You still don’t know how to deal with it,” she said, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and took a step back, but didn’t look away.

“Let me know if you ever finish that letter.”

Then I turned, walking off toward the gym, heart pounding in my chest — and a quiet, hopeful silence hanging behind me.