Several days passed. The air around school changed without anyone saying so directly. The English debate competition wasn't loud or flashy, but it was coming. And Kotarō felt it in every hallway shadow and quiet glance.
Haruka never followed up on her "That's a story" line. She didn't act like she'd forgotten, either. It just drifted into the background, like a melody that never looped back around.
"Maybe that smile was the full answer. Or maybe it was punctuation for something unfinished."
She sat two rows ahead of him in homeroom now, idly tapping through her debate notes between conversations. Confident, casual, consistent. Kotarō never asked again.
That afternoon, Mr. Takeda called them in for a tournament briefing. The kind with handouts, not jokes.
The room was quiet except for the rustle of printed schedules. Watanabe slouched sideways in his seat like posture was optional. Haruka already had her pen out before Takeda finished passing out the sheets.
"Here it is," Takeda said, tapping a bracket diagram. "The competition's set for next week."
"Next week. Not far enough to forget. Not close enough to panic. The worst zone."
"Preliminary rounds will be on the second floor. Each team gets a designated classroom. Inside: three judges, one event committee member, and a documentary staff member filming."
Kotarō's eyes skimmed the bold header: ENGLISH DEBATE EXHIBITION - OFFICIAL PAIRINGS.
"Audience?" Watanabe asked.
"None," Takeda replied. "Not until the final."
Watanabe let out a breath like it owed him money.
"Oh good, I thought I'd have to like, perform."
"You won't. That's the one thing I'm not worried about."
"The final match," Takeda continued, "will be in the gym. Full setup. Audience. Cameras. Projector. So aim high."
"Perfect. Just had to throw 'projector' in there."
Practice changed. Not overnight. But noticeably.
Haruka started showing up with a stopwatch around her wrist, like timing wasn't just a rule—it was a ritual. She brought paper drills, printed motions, and her tone turned from helpful to sharp.
Not cold. Just focused. Like something in her had clicked.
Watanabe still showed up late. Still didn't bring notes. Still thought improvisation was a form of personality.
"He treats this like karaoke. If he vibes hard enough, content will magically appear."
The format was simple: 30 seconds to prepare. One-minute response. Rotation.
Kotarō stepped up. His voice cracked halfway through his first line. But he didn't stop. Words came. Too stiff. Too flat. But they arrived.
"Still feels like speaking from underwater. But at least it's not silent."
Then Haruka stood up. Motion in hand. No notes. She didn't even glance at the stopwatch.
"This House would prioritize logic over empathy in governance."
She spoke like the sentence had been hers all along. Fluid. Intact.
"She doesn't raise her voice. She lowers the room."
Even Watanabe gave a half-hearted clap.
"No pressure, right?"
He didn't take his turn. Again.
"His strategy is absence. He's undefeated at non-participation."
Kotarō walked the long way back to class. Passed the corkboard near the stairs.
The same poster was still there.
White. Off-center. A blob of formality.
Later that evening, he returned with a printed replacement.
Join the Conversation. Witness the Clash. English Debate Exhibition.
He pinned it up and walked away.
"No one saw me. But it didn't fall off. That's progress."
At home, the lights stayed off.
Kotarō sat in front of his laptop. No documents. No drafts. Just one random motion from a sheet Haruka had left.
"This House would require students to study abroad."
He opened his recording app.
Took a breath.
Spoke.
The words weren't good. But they were whole.
Two minutes later, he hit stop.
"Still shaky. But it existed. That has to count for something."
He saved it in a folder called Trials. Didn't even name the file.
Just let it sit there.
The next day, after practice, Haruka waited by the door.
"Same time tomorrow," she said. Then casually: "I'll be at the English club room after. You should come. Just for a bit."
She said it like someone offering you the end of a sentence to complete yourself.
"I've avoided clubs my entire life. But she said it like it wasn't a contract. Just a hallway with one extra door."
Chapter End.