The afternoon sun painted long gold streaks across the cssroom floor as the final bell rang. Books closed. Chairs scraped. Voices rose in relief.

  "Freedom," Haruto sighed, smming his notebook shut like it had personally offended him. "First day done, and I only spaced out in two out of five csses. Personal best."

  I smirked, slipping my schedule into my bag. "Progress."

  As students filtered out, Miss Aizawa stood by the board, calmly wiping away the day's notes. Her figure moved with quiet elegance, every motion measured. My eyes lingered a second too long—again.

  Haruto nudged me. "You should join the Literature Club."

  "What?"

  "They're doing their member call today," he said. "Posters are up in the hallway. Come on, you like reading, right?"

  I hesitated. "I read... sometimes."

  "That's good enough. Besides," he leaned in, grinning, "rumor has it Miss Aizawa's the faculty sponsor."

  My stomach flipped slightly. "Really?"

  Haruto raised an eyebrow. "You're interested now, huh?"

  Before I could deny it, a familiar voice joined in.

  "You should join," Saki said, sliding her bag over one shoulder. "It's quiet. Peaceful. Less yelling than the art room."

  "You're in the Lit Club?" I asked, surprised.

  She nodded. "Since st year. We mostly just read together, or write stuff when we feel like it."

  "Sounds... chill."

  She gave a faint smile. "You'd like it."

  ?

  Minutes ter, I found myself standing in front of the Literature Club room, tucked near the end of the third-floor hallway. Haruto had ditched me for soccer tryouts, and Saki had already gone ahead.

  I hesitated for a moment, then slid the door open.

  Inside, it was quieter than I expected. A small circle of desks was set up, not too formal, and warm afternoon light poured in through the windows. A few students were already seated, talking softly. Saki was there, of course, sketchbook in her p.

  And at the front—Miss Aizawa.

  She looked up and smiled gently. "Neo. I'm gd you came."

  My heart tripped over itself.

  "Uh... yeah. Just looking around."

  Saki gestured to the seat beside her. "Sit. You already passed the vibe check."

  I smiled awkwardly and sat down, feeling oddly welcome.

  ?

  Miss Aizawa started the meeting by introducing the club's purpose—reading, writing, sharing ideas. No competitions, no pressure. Just expression.

  She spoke differently here. Softer. Less formal. Like she belonged in the space just as much as the students did.

  Then she cpped her hands lightly. "Alright, to get to know each other, let's try a five-minute free write. Topic is... 'A pce I feel like myself.' You can write, draw, think—whatever suits you."

  Saki immediately bent over her sketchpad. Others began scribbling. I stared at the bnk page in front of me.

  My mind wandered—through cssrooms, vending machines, quiet walks to school.

  Then, uninvited but vivid, came the memory of Miss Aizawa's voice calling my name in literature css.

  And her saying, "You speak softly... but when you read, your voice carries weight."

  I wrote:

  "The pce I feel like myself is nowhere in particur,

  but sometimes, when someone sees me—really sees me—

  it feels like home, even if just for a moment."

  It wasn't much. But it felt true.

  ?

  After the five minutes, Miss Aizawa gave a small bow. "If you'd like to share, you're welcome to."

  A few did. Some poems, one funny comic strip, a haiku about a rice cooker.

  Saki passed. So did I.

  But before we left, she peeked at my notebook.

  She didn't say anything—just gave me a quick, subtle nod, like she got it.

  ?

  As the other students packed up, Miss Aizawa stayed behind, gathering papers. I stood to leave, but then she looked up.

  "Neo," she said. "Would you mind staying back for just a minute?"

  My pulse kicked up again. "Sure."

  Saki gnced back once before leaving, her eyes briefly nding on me. Then the door clicked shut behind her.

  I turned toward Miss Aizawa, unsure whether to sit or stand.

  She gestured toward one of the bookshelves. "Some of the poetry books need re-shelving, but they're old and the order's odd. Thought you might be better at spotting patterns than most."

  I blinked. "You... want me to organize them?"

  She smiled. "Only if you're willing. No pressure. I just thought it might be your kind of quiet task."

  Something about the way she said it made it feel like more than just about books.

  "I don't mind," I said.

  She stepped back, letting me sort through the thin, worn volumes. Some had cracked spines. A few had hand-written notes in the margins.

  After a minute, she spoke again.

  "You're thoughtful," she said, quietly. "Most students your age rush to be loud. To prove they're present."

  I gnced at her. "I've just always felt like I say the wrong things. Or nothing at all."

  "Sometimes," she said, stepping beside me, "the ones who speak least notice the most."

  Her shoulder was almost touching mine. I could feel the warmth of her presence like a quiet hum.

  I wasn't sure what to say. The air felt different in this room—more delicate, more real.

  Then she gently took one of the books from my hand, brushing my fingers in the process.

  My breath hitched slightly, and she paused, just long enough to notice.

  Her eyes met mine for the briefest of seconds. Then she smiled—small, unreadable.

  "Thank you, Neo. That'll be all for today."

  ?

  Outside the room, the hallway was mostly empty. I walked slowly, not entirely sure what I was thinking.

  At the base of the stairs, Saki leaned against the wall, sketchpad in hand.

  "You survived," she said dryly.

  "Barely," I replied. "Didn't expect to be alphabetizing poetry books."

  "She asked you to stay?"

  I nodded.

  Saki didn't react much. She just flipped her sketchpad shut and looked at me sideways. "She likes quiet people. Makes sense."

  I couldn't read her tone. But it wasn't cold.

  "Thanks for suggesting the club," I said.

  She shrugged. "You belong there."

  We walked together a few steps, not talking. It felt... calm. Natural.

  Then she added, softly, "If you ever want to sketch with me, even if you're awful at it... you can."

  I ughed. "You haven't even seen my skills."

  "Exactly. I'm offering before I regret it."

  And with that, she turned down a side path toward the school gate.

  I watched her for a moment before heading the other way, heart still trying to decide whether it was beating for the girl with the pencil in her hand...

  ...or the teacher with poetry in her eyes.

  ?

  [To Be Continued...]