Chapter 30 – The Storm We Feared

The photo surfaces on a Monday.

A shaky, grainy image posted by an anonymous social media account with a caption that simply reads:

> “Caught under the fireworks. 🍒💥 #YouKnowWho #TripScandal”

At first, it’s just an odd post. A few students scroll past it, eyes narrowing in confusion. But then someone zooms in. The lighting is dim, but the silhouettes are unmistakable:

Aya Kurozawa, their P.E teacher.

Haruka Takamine, Social Teacher.

Locked in a kiss under a blooming sky of red and gold fireworks.

Within hours, it spreads like wildfire.

By second period, someone has already sent the photo to the class group chat. By lunch break, it’s trending on local threads. Screens light up all over campus.

> “That’s Kurozawa-sensei, right?”

“No way… with a Haru - Sensei ?”

“Isn’t that Takamine?”

> “Didn’t she always stay behind after class?”

“Remember that time she cried after Kurozawa gave her a note?”

“Oh my god, it all makes sense.”

Each whisper is a blade in Haruka’s gut.

Each look lingers too long.

Each laugh feels sharp and knowing.

By the time the final bell rings, the school is in chaos.

The principal calls an emergency staff meeting. Parents begin gathering at the school gates, clutching their phones, their faces tense. Some demand answers. Others record videos. A local journalist from a gossip outlet appears.

Inside the nurse’s office, Aya and Haru sit side by side in silence.

The air smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender oil. Outside the room, chaos stirs—footsteps pacing, voices raised, phones buzzing.

Haru’s hands shake in her lap.

She can’t breathe properly. Her throat burns.

Tears prick her eyes, but she forces them down.

“I’m sorry,” Haru whispers, voice brittle, cracking with guilt. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t… If I hadn’t kissed you—”

Aya reaches over and gently takes her hand.

Her palm is warm. Grounding.

“No,” Aya says softly, her voice a fragile calm. “This is on me. You’re a younger teen . And I’m the adult.”

“But—” Haru bites her lip hard enough to bleed. “I wanted to. I meant it.”

Aya’s smile is faint, bitter.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

There’s a knock. Then the door opens. A stern-faced administrator gestures silently.

They are called in.

The conference room is full—more than either of them expected.

Around the long table sit the principal, vice-principal, senior teachers, PTA leaders, a few board members, and a school counselor. The air is thick. Oppressive. Flashbulbs go off from someone’s phone, despite the ban on recordings.

Aya steps forward and bows deeply at the waist.

Her voice is clear.

Steady.

Resigned.

> “I take full responsibility. Haruka did not initiate anything. I failed as a teacher .”

Gasps ripple through the room.

Haru jolts up. “No—don’t say that—Aya—!”

Aya doesn't look at her. She keeps her eyes on the table. On the adults who now look at her like a fallen statue. Like something broken.

“I understand the weight of my actions. Effective immediately, I submit my resignation.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then some of the mothers nod grimly.

A man in a PTA jacket mutters, “It’s the only path forward.”

A few others whisper about involving the Board of Education.

The meeting dissolves into procedural chaos. Paperwork is fetched. Aya signs with calm hands.

Haru just stands there, eyes wide, voice caught in her throat. Like she’s watching her entire world slip away and there’s nothing she can do.

When they’re dismissed, they’re told to leave by the back door.

“Too many parents at the gates,” the counselor explains quietly. “It’ll be safer.”

Outside, the sky is a pale, unkind gray. Wind rustles the leaves in the courtyard. It’s going to rain.

Haru clings to Aya’s coat like a drowning girl.

She buries her face into her back and sobs. The tears finally come, hot and uncontrollable.

> “Why did you protect me like that? Why did you lie for me?”

> “Why did it have to end like this?”

Aya turns around and wraps her arms around Haruka tightly.

She strokes her hair like she used to during late  nights. Like she did during that trip, when Haru fell asleep against her on the bus.

“It didn’t end,” she murmurs into her hair. “We’re just walking a different road now.”

---

That night, Haruka refuses to go home.

She gets off the bus, walks straight past her neighborhood, and hides out in the quietest library in town. For hours.

Her phone vibrates nonstop—texts from her mother, angry voicemails from her father.

By 8:30 p.m., they’ve called the police.

They think she’s run away.

They think she’s suicidal.

They don’t know where to find her.

But Haruka isn’t running away. She’s staying still.

She sits on a bench under a dead streetlamp and stares up at the sky.

She thinks about the fireworks.

About the way Aya’s lips had trembled right before the kiss.

About how her hands always smelled like ink and jasmine tea.

About how she never called Haruka by her first name in public.

Her fingers hover over her phone.

She types slowly.

> I’m not sorry.

I love you.

And I’m not going anywhere.

The message is delivered instantly.

She stares at the screen.

No reply.

A full minute passes.

Then, at last, Aya sends a single word:

> Home.

Haruka doesn't hesitate. She stands up, pulls her coat tight, and walks.

---

It’s past 10 p.m. when Aya opens the door to her apartment.

She’s still wearing the same coat from the meeting. Her eyes are red. Her suitcase is half-packed. Resignation letter copies sit on the dining table, beside a half-finished bottle of sake.

When she sees Haru, something in her face cracks.

But she doesn’t cry.

Neither of them does.

Haruka steps forward, drops her bag, and throws her arms around Aya.

They stay like that. Not speaking. Just breathing. Listening to the storm begin outside the window—soft raindrops tapping the glass.

Finally, Aya whispers:

> “You shouldn’t be here.”

Haruka presses her forehead against Aya’s chest. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“…Your parents will be furious.”

“They already are.”

Silence.

Then:

> “I’ll talk to them,” Aya says. “I’ll explain everything. I’ll tell them you weren’t—”

“I was, though,” Haru interrupts. “I knew what I was doing. I love you.”

Aya closes her eyes.

Her hands tremble at Haru’s back. “Loving me… ruined your life.”

“No,” Haruka whispers, voice barely audible. “It’s the only part of my life that ever made sense.”

---

They sit on the floor that night, backs against the wall, watching the storm through the window.

Rain falls steadily. In the distance, sirens wail. The world feels distant. Too big. Too loud.

Aya pours tea. Haru accepts it with both hands, like it’s sacred.

“I’ll have to move soon,” Aya says quietly. “They’re revoking my license. I won’t be able to teach again.”

Haruka doesn’t flinch. “Then I’ll move too. Someday.”

Aya smiles bitterly. “You’re still young and you have future”

“I won’t be forever.”

Another silence.

Then Haruka leans her head on Aya’s shoulder.

“We’ll find a way,” she murmurs. “We always do.”

---

But even as they sit in the quiet warmth of each other’s presence, the storm continues to build beyond the walls.

Screens light up with fresh posts.

More photos.

A clip of Haruka clinging to Aya in the courtyard, crying.

A screenshot of the resignation letter someone secretly snapped.

Anonymous comments flood the threads:

> “Disgusting.”

“Why aren’t the cops involved?”

“Typical predator teacher.”

“That poor girl… she must’ve been manipulated.”

“Criminal.”

“Fireworks? More like red flags.”

Aya hasn’t opened her phone all evening.

She doesn’t have to.

She knows.

The storm has only just begun.

But for now, inside this room, with Haruka's head resting against her, the world is quiet.

Just for a little while.