The room is small, dimly lit. Overly warm. A repurposed seminar space near the arts building, now filled with mismatched chairs, flickering electric candles, and that humid murmur of people trying to whisper like they aren’t whispering.

Nanami stands in the back. Arms crossed, shoulder against the wall. He’s not sure why he came. He told himself it was for curiosity. For structure. For seeing how others wield language so he could refine his own.

But really? It was that flyer. The one pinned crookedly to the econ building’s board. The one with soft blue ink and the quote: “You were a poem long before anyone tried to read you.”

So here he is. Pretending he isn’t hiding. Pretending he isn’t holding his breath.

The first reader stammers through a piece about autumn and heartbreak. There’s clapping. Someone snaps.

Nanami tunes in and out.

He notes the cadence of the second poet’s voice. The clench in the jaw. How people laugh too early, trying to fill silence with noise.

He catches one phrase that stays: “I loved her like a bruise—tender, deep, slow to fade.”

And something in him—tightens. Not in pain. Not even sadness. Just… awareness. That poetry names the things he’s always felt but never said aloud.

Then—

He hears soft footsteps stop beside him. A coat rustling. The quiet tap of a thermos being adjusted in hand.

He glances sideways, expecting nothing. And there she is.

Standing next to him like she belongs there.

She’s dressed in layered neutrals, hair damp at the ends like she ran here through rain. There's a pen tucked behind her ear. A faint ink smudge on her wrist. Her eyes are focused on the poet at the mic—but she’s listening like she already understands something deeper.

He blinks once. Twice.

Oh.

That’s it. No spark, no lightning bolt. Just— Oh. Like recognition. Like something he’s been writing toward without knowing.

She notices his gaze, just barely, and glances up at him. A small, curious smile. Not flirty. Just… open.

Nanami looks away.