Chapter 19 – “Poetry Therapy for the Heart”

The classroom was quiet long after the final bell. The sunset filtered through the dusty blinds, painting everything in shades of orange and melancholy.

Yuuto sat at his desk, rubbing his temples as he sorted through exam papers. The results weren’t… great.

“Akari: barely passing. Rika: borderline perfect—no surprise. Mizuki…” He sighed softly. “She really tried.”

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door creaked open. Mizuki stepped inside, clutching her literature notebook against her chest. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her usually calm voice barely a whisper.

“Yuuto-kun… can I talk to you for a moment?”

He looked up and smiled gently. “Of course. You don’t need to ask.”

She hesitated, stepping forward. “I… I got my midterm results.”

“I know,” he said carefully. “I checked them too. You did better than before.”

Her shoulders trembled. “That’s not true. I failed the essay. Again.”

She placed the paper on the desk—red marks scattered across it like tiny wounds.

Yuuto frowned, reading the teacher’s note: ‘Too emotional. Stay focused on structure.’

“Too emotional,” Mizuki repeated softly, staring at the comment. “It’s literature. Aren’t emotions supposed to matter?”

Her voice cracked, and she turned away, brushing her sleeve across her eyes.

Yuuto stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mizuki… you care too much about what others think. You’re not wrong for feeling things deeply.”

She didn’t respond.

So he walked to the board, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote a single sentence:

> Write what you feel.

“Let’s forget structure for now,” he said, turning to her with a soft smile. “No rules, no format. Just… write what’s inside you.”

Mizuki blinked. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

She sat slowly, hands trembling as she opened her notebook. The pen hovered over the blank page. For a long while, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock.

Then—quietly, she began to write.

---

Fifteen minutes later, she pushed the notebook toward him. “It’s silly,” she murmured. “Please don’t laugh.”

Yuuto smiled. “I won’t.”

He read.

> When the day fades and the stars whisper quietly,

I find myself looking for something warm.

A light in the dark classroom—

someone who smiles even when the world feels heavy.

I study, not for knowledge…

but for the chance to sit beside him.

Yuuto froze.

“Mizuki…”

Her cheeks flushed bright red. “It’s just… a poem.”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Her soft brown hair framed her shy expression, eyes shimmering like liquid glass. She was trembling, as if afraid he’d reject not the poem—but the feelings woven between its lines.

He smiled gently. “It’s beautiful. You have a gift for turning emotion into words.”

She blinked rapidly. “R-really? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Then, before she could stop herself, tears began to fall—quiet, fragile tears that slipped down her cheeks.

“I… I wanted someone to say that,” she whispered. “Just once.”

Without thinking, Yuuto reached for a tissue and offered it to her. “You deserve to hear it more than once.”

Mizuki took it, smiling weakly through her tears. “You’re too kind, Yuuto-kun.”

There it was again—his first name. Soft. Unintentional. But real.

He felt his chest tighten, unsure why her smile suddenly made his heart ache.

For a while, they just sat there—two people surrounded by the fading light, saying nothing, because silence itself felt comforting.

---

Outside the classroom, a quiet click echoed.

Rika stood in the hallway, holding her own notebook. She’d come to return a reference book to Yuuto—but stopped when she saw through the window.

Inside, Mizuki sat close to him, smiling softly as Yuuto gently wiped a tear from her cheek.

Rika’s fingers tightened around the notebook. Her throat felt oddly dry.

“So that’s how it is…” she whispered under her breath.

Then, with a small sigh that sounded almost like a laugh, she turned and walked away.

---

Back inside, Mizuki finally exhaled. “Thank you, Yuuto-kun. For listening.”

He smiled. “Anytime. And for the record—your emotions aren’t weaknesses. They’re your strength.”

Her eyes softened. “Then… can I write more? Not for school, but… for myself?”

“Of course. I’ll even read them, if you’d like.”

Mizuki nodded, her cheeks glowing. “Then maybe I’ll call it Poetry Therapy.”

He chuckled. “Therapy, huh? That makes me the therapist.”

She giggled—a rare, melodic sound. “Then prescribe me more time to write with you.”

Yuuto laughed softly. “Consider it approved.”

The warmth between them lingered long after the laughter faded.

As the last sliver of sunlight disappeared beyond the windows, Mizuki packed her things and stood.

“Good night, Yuuto-kun.”

He raised a hand in farewell. “Good night, Mizuki.”

When she left, Yuuto sat back in his chair, staring at the half-written chalk on the board: Write what you feel.

He smiled faintly. “Guess she did.”

Then, without thinking, he murmured the words of her poem under his breath:

> A light in the dark classroom—someone who smiles even when the world feels heavy.

For the first time, Yuuto realized the line described him… but somehow, it made his heart flutter instead.