The school courtyard was quieter now. The festival banners were gone, replaced by the usual gray monotony of high school life. But something had shifted. Not in the air or the sky or the walls—but in people.
And maybe, in me.
I sat alone near the back of the school building, halfway through a vending machine coffee that tasted like regret and rusted ambition.
Mina Kawahara found me there.
She sat beside me without asking, without ceremony. That was her way.
"So," she said, arms crossed. "You're not just some puzzle-solver or script-fixer."
I blinked. "Is this a compliment or a threat?"
"It's a statement," she said. "You changed her."
"Her?"
She didn't even need to say Koharu's name. We both knew.
"She believed she had to sparkle all the time. Be special. Loud. Funny. Dreamy. And honestly, half of that was exhausting even for me."
I took a slow sip. "Agreed."
Mina glanced at me. "But now, she still sparkles. Only softer. Not because she wants the world to look. But because someone already is."
That someone being me.
It should have made me smug. It made me scared instead. Because I still didn't know what I was doing. I was a reluctant protagonist, stumbling through genre shifts and emotional arcs like a socially awkward JRPG character.
But then I heard her voice.
"Senpai."
I turned, and there she was.
Koharu Takamine, the not-so-cute kohai who somehow became the most important person in my story.
She walked straight up to me and, without asking or hesitating, took my hand.
Fingers intertwined. Public. Bold. Irrevocable.
"No flags," she said. "Just me."
The world didn't spin. The sky didn't shatter. But my heart—quiet and cautious—let itself beat a little louder.
Behind her, I noticed movement.
Yuki Shirakawa stood by the staircase, notebook in hand. She watched for a moment, her face unreadable. Then she smiled—soft, resigned, almost proud—and turned away.
One story closed.
Not long after, Noa stumbled into view. She paused, wide-eyed, and then slowly approached.
She wasn't smiling.
"So... you really chose her."
I didn't reply. I didn't have to.
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.
"Even stories end, huh?"
"Some end," I said. "Some just change focus."
She gave me a wobbly smile. "Then maybe I'll start mine now."
Makki, who had somehow appeared without warning—as usual—clapped me on the back.
"I'm just glad someone's getting a girlfriend," he declared.
"You say that like you aren't subscribed to ten dating sim newsletters."
"Theory and practice are different beasts, my friend."
He beamed. "Still, proud of you, Kuroda. You turned this slice-of-life into a romantic comedy worth watching."
"I thought it was a psychological slow burn."
"With harem undertones," he added. "Don't forget the genre tags."
We laughed. Not loudly. But the kind of laugh that stays.
That evening, I returned to the Literature Club to find it empty.
Almost.
On the desk was a note.
Tsubaki-sensei's elegant handwriting scrawled across a simple white page:
Don't stop writing, Kuroda.
Stories like yours matter. Especially to those still finding their own.
See you in the next chapter.
There was no signature. There didn't need to be.
I sat down. Took out a pen. Flipped open the notebook I had once abandoned.
Koharu's voice echoed in my head:
Let's write it together.
Maybe I would.
Not because I wanted to prove anything.
But because now, finally, I had something worth saying.
And someone worth saying it with.
Even background characters deserve their spotlight eventually.