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Chapter Eleven: Words We Never Meant to Say

  The poetry reading was held at a small café across from the bookstore, a place called The Velvet Bean that smelled perpetually of cinnamon and old dreams.

  A string of paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a low, amber glow over the mismatched tables. People crowded in, balancing coffee cups and expectation.

  Yuki stood near the back, heart a fist beating against his ribs.

  He spotted Aoi instantly.

  She was sitting near the stage, notebook open, pen tapping anxiously against her knee. Her hair was tucked behind one ear. She wasn’t smiling.

  And she hadn’t saved him a seat.

  Kenta, the café owner and an irredeemable romantic, stepped up to the little wooden platform.

  "Tonight’s theme," he announced with a wink, "is beginnings and endings. Make of that what you will."

  The night unfolded with nervous laughter and stammered verses. Some were good, some were terrible—but everyone clapped anyway, because kindness mattered more than perfection.

  When Aoi’s name was called, Yuki forgot how to breathe.

  She climbed onto the stage, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear again. Her voice, when it came, was soft—but it carried.

  She didn’t read from her notebook.

  She didn’t need to.

  “Some endings never announce themselves.

  They wear the face of friendship,

  the hands of hope,

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  the voice of rain.

  Some endings look a lot like beginnings—

  until you blink,

  and find yourself standing alone.”

  She paused, her eyes finding Yuki’s across the crowded room.

  “But even alone...

  I think I'd rather walk forward,

  than wait forever in the ruins of almost.”

  She gave a small, almost invisible bow, then fled the stage before the applause even started.

  Yuki stood frozen.

  The whole room clapped, but it sounded distant, muted by the roaring in his ears.

  He moved without thinking, weaving through the bodies toward the door. Toward her.

  He caught her just outside, beneath a streetlamp dripping silver rain.

  “Aoi,” he said.

  She didn’t turn immediately.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Yuki,” she said, voice low. “Not explanations. Not promises.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

  Finally, she looked at him.

  The pain there broke him a little.

  “I thought...” she whispered, “I thought maybe we could be something more. But maybe I was wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Yuki said, stepping closer. The rain painted halos in her hair. “I’m just slow.”

  Aoi’s lips curved into a sad smile.

  "I don't want to be someone's almost," she said.

  "You’re not," he whispered.

  And before he could lose the courage—the stupid, reckless courage—he leaned in and kissed her.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  It was rain-soaked, trembling, breathless.

  But it was real.

  And Aoi kissed him back.

  The rain fell harder.

  The world blurred at the edges.

  And somewhere, maybe, the river carried a new wish down into the dark — one not written on paper, but carved in the trembling spaces between two beating hearts.

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