A Piece of Me, A Piece of You

Lyra slowly turned the page.

The rustle her fingertips made against the notebook’s edge strangely echoed the rhythm of my heartbeat.

She didn’t say anything as she read a few more lines.

Her eyes drifted across the verses, but there was no smile on her lips—none of the teasing looks I usually expected.

I realized I was holding my breath.

“What if she mocks it… what if she says ‘what the hell is this’… what if…”
That old high school version of myself had resurfaced, sitting heavily on my heart again.

Back when I used to write that notebook… I was a kid who whispered only to himself.
“I’d be humiliated if anyone ever saw this,” I used to think.

But now… the notebook was open. The words were exposed.
And the girl who brought spring into my life was reading them.

Lyra remained quiet for a while longer.
She didn’t close the page.
She simply lifted her head and looked at me.
And that look…
That look wasn’t mocking… nor was it blind admiration.
It was like… she was truly seeing me for the first time.
She didn’t look away.
Then, slowly, she spoke.

“Yuta… who exactly are you?”

I didn’t quite grasp what she meant. 

“W-what?”

But her gaze stayed fixed on me, voice soft yet firm. Her brows slightly furrowed, eyes filled with a quiet astonishment.

“I mean, this is how you think when you write, isn’t it?”
She drew in a shaky breath. There was an odd excitement in her tone.

“When you can’t say what you feel out loud… you turn it into words. Silently. Without showing anyone. But in those lines… that’s the most authentic version of you. And on top of that, you’re into music, you’re studying such a difficult major—who knows what else you’re doing…
So I have to ask again. Who are you?”

I couldn’t respond.
She was right. I didn’t really know what I was either. When talking to someone, I’d just say, “I’m just an ordinary person.”
But deep inside, I knew I wasn’t.

Lyra tilted her head slightly and glanced at the page again.

“In this poem… you were drawn to someone—not love, exactly. But you felt so much.”

My heart almost stopped.
What did that even mean?
Was “loving” someone different from “feeling” something?

She continued:
“There’s no name. Not even a face. But the feelings… they’re there. Every line echoes through me like a melody.
A glance that slips away,
A sentence never spoken,
Or maybe… just a thank you.
Whatever it is,
It’s beautiful. Really beautiful.
And the fact that it came from someone like you… I’m not surprised, but I am deeply moved.
You’re just… different.”

As she said that last word, she gently closed the notebook.
She didn’t look at me right away.
Her gaze stayed on her hands.
Maybe she was reflecting on something herself.
But that word—“different”—
It fell on all the burdens of winter and past regrets like a gentle spring rain.

“Me? Different? Everyone does things like this,” I muttered, stumbling.

“No, they don’t.”
Lyra flipped through the notebook again and continued.
“How many people do you think reflect on their thoughts and feelings enough to fill an entire notebook?”

I couldn’t swallow. She wasn’t angry or mocking me—she was asking, sincerely, with a touch of sorrow and wonder on her face.
It was just a poem after all. The others weren’t even that good… right?

“Even so, it’s not that hard,” I said calmly. Anyone who wanted to write could. I was just someone who wanted to write.
Though honestly, I probably sounded like someone belittling himself to fish for praise.

“Yuta…" She took a deep breath before speaking.
"Then let’s try something. You wrote something about the Emi situation, right?” Lyra was looking at me as if trying to prove a point.

“Y-yeah.”

“Is it on the last page?” she reached toward the end of the notebook.

“No, wait. Not the last page. Let me open it.”
I quickly took the notebook from her hands. The piece about Emi was just before the final page.
Because the last page… was about Lyra.

“So something happened after?” she asked, puzzled.

“No, it’s just… I can’t show the last page to anyone yet. Sorry.”
Lyra looked a bit disappointed. All she said was, “I see.”

I opened the page:

Silence sank into the page,
Like echoes I locked far away.
Even if I could turn the age,
We were a story time let stray...

Lyra read it quietly beside me.
She sighed deeply.

“If it were that easy, one word couldn’t carry three meanings, and every verse couldn’t reflect such different emotions, Yuta,” she said.

I was quietly thrilled.
Someone had finally read my poems and said I’d done well.
I felt embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say.
While Lyra looked at me, I just stared at my notebook in her hands.

Then she smiled softly and quickly shut it. I flinched a bit.

“Come on, let’s write a poem together.”

“Huh?”

“It doesn’t need to rhyme or be perfect. Just a poem.”

“How and about what?”

“Hmm… I’ll write the first stanza, you write the second. Let’s make it about… feeling small.”

“Small as in humiliation, or personal struggle?”

“Personal struggle. You understand why I chose that, don’t you?”

“…” I understood completely. She thought I had an inferiority complex.
Well… in some ways, I did.

“Shall we start?” Lyra tore out two pieces of paper from her notebook and handed one to me.
Her hazel-green eyes looked at me with eager curiosity, glowing under the light trickling in through the window.

“O-okay.”

“But no peeking until we’re done!” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Alright, I’ll just go sit across—”
As I stood up, Lyra gently grabbed the back of my shirt.

“No, stay here. Just… turn around. Use your notebook as support.”
There was a helpless look in her eyes. She looked so adorable—almost sad to see me leave.

“H-huh? O-okay…” I grinned softly.

But what was I even going to write?
Normally, it took me hours to finish a poem. Now I had just minutes.

Then, the memory of our earlier moment flashed through my mind.
And then, just life in general. It was all… ordinary, wasn’t it?

Feeling small meant different things to different people. And many were like me.
But it was also an excuse I gave myself.
Deep down, I felt like someone who was rotting inside—trying to fix one part of me while letting others fall apart.
And with that, the inspiration struck.
I began to write…

A few minutes passed.

“I’m done,” Lyra said softly. I had just finished my final line too.
I turned back.

“Me too.”

We placed the papers side by side.

“Then I’ll read it,” she whispered, as we were still in the library.

“Okay.”

Even when I seem so brave and bright,
I’m just a flicker lost in fading light.
Among the crowd, I drift, erased,
A quiet soul in silence encased.

This weakness carves a deeper ground,
In stillness, echoes start to sound.
My flaws ignite like stars unseen,
And in that hush, I dare to dream.

A strange silence fell over us.

The first stanza described someone who appeared confident but felt lost and small inside.
The second stanza, however, flipped it—someone who always felt small, yet had a universe within.
It was like our opposing personalities had collided through verse.

“You wrote something beautiful, Yuta,” Lyra said, looking at my lines.

“You too. Do you write poetry often?” I asked curiously.

“Not really. But based on what you just said, I guess you don’t believe anyone can write poetry, huh?” she teased, grinning. A callback to my earlier comment.

“Well… maybe you’re right,” I admitted. Time to accept defeat.

“But still, we did great. They turned out really nice.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“Mind if I keep them with me?” Lyra asked, eyes shining.

Honestly, I wanted to keep them too. It felt like a keepsake from us.

“Well… maybe I could at least take a photo of yours. As a memory.”

Lyra looked surprised.
In the quiet library, I could hear both of our breaths.

“Then…” she said with a smile, handing me her poem.
“Let one piece stay with you, and I’ll keep the other.”
She was shy, averting her eyes.

I smiled. She looked incredibly sweet.

“Alright.” I gently took the paper.

“Okay then! Back to studying!”
Lyra clapped her hands like she was resetting herself.

I slid my chair back into place, still holding the paper. I didn’t want to fold or wrinkle it.

Then I had an idea.
I could keep it in my poetry notebook.

I opened the last page.
The poem I had written about Lyra was already there.
And its final line…
It felt like it had been waiting for this moment all along:

"With all I’ve received from you, I keep learning,
Your joy and spirit in me, forever burning."

I slid the paper in and gently closed it.

And just like that,
What started as a silly poetry crisis triggered by grabbing the wrong notebook,
Ended with me receiving my first gift—

From the person who mattered.