"He's chasing this serial arsonist who leaves origami cranes at the crime scenes."
Rin blinked again. "O-Origami…?"
"Yeah! Because the killer's whole theme is 'beauty in destruction.' Poetic, right? Like a criminal version of a haiku contest gone rogue. But then it turns out the cranes have coded messages in the folds, referencing classic literature. That's when Aki figures out the killer is actually an old novelist who disappeared ten years ago…"
Pause. Breathe. Or risk passing out from excitement.
"The twist, though—the twist! It's not about catching the killer. It's about whether Aki can understand him. The novel is full of these monologues, like—wait, I bookmarked it last time—"
I flipped to a page with the reverence of a priest opening the Book of Revelation.
"Here! Page 173—'To chase a man is to walk his shadows. But to stop him? You must love what he hates, and hate what he loves.' Isn't that incredible?"
I looked up.
Rin was staring at me.
Mouth slightly open.
Eyes glassy.
"A-Are you… okay, Kamoshida-san?" I asked, waving a hand in front of her.
"H-Huh? Ah—! Y-Yes! Sorry, Mizuki-kun! I just… I've never seen someone get that… animated about a book before…"
"E-Eh?!"
"Don't judge me! It was an emotionally complex climax!"
"I'm not judging! I-I think it's… c-cute…"
Oh.
Oh no.
I did it again.
Classic Kaito move: talk about yourself like you're the main character in everyone else's autobiography.
My heart sank a little. The thrill of the book had fogged over what I was supposed to be doing—this wasn't about books.
This was about her.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I went full nerd mode back there," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
She blinked, confused. "Eh…? N-No, it was… interesting. I liked listening to you…"
She said it with a small smile, but her fingers were nervously clenching the strap of her bag.
I followed her gaze.
Back to that literary section.
And I suddenly remembered.
She writes poems.
"…Hey, Kamoshida-san," I said.
She looked up.
"You wanna check out the literary section?"
Her eyes widened. "A-Ah, n-no, you don't have to—I know you like thrillers, and I don't want to—"
I didn't let her finish. I gently took her hand—not a romantic grab, just… a steadying one—and pulled her toward the back shelf. She followed like she might turn into mist if I let go.
We stopped in front of the poetry section.
I crouched, pretending to examine a spine. "This one looks intense. A tragic love story between a dandelion and a sidewalk crack."
She gave a tiny, involuntary giggle.
"Kamoshida-san," I said softly. "You write poems, right?"
Her breath caught.
I felt it.
Like I'd peeled something open by accident.
Like I'd exposed a wound she didn't want me to see.
I stepped back, giving her space.
"…Sorry," I said, voice low. "I didn't mean to—"
"I do," she whispered suddenly. "I do write poems."
Silence.
Not the kind that fills space.
The kind that reveals it.
"…I just… don't show anyone. They're weird. Too emotional. Cringey, maybe."
Her voice cracked slightly.
"They made fun of me. Back then. Said it was gross"
Ah.
So that's what this was.
Not just shyness.
Shame.
"Writing poems isn't gross," I said.
She looked up, startled. Like I'd just said the moon was made of takoyaki.
I leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, trying to look casual. I probably just looked like I had scoliosis.
"I mean, sure, it's not the kind of thing you shout about on the morning train. 'Hey, I wrote a haiku about despair and cherry blossoms!' Instant social exile."
A tiny giggle escaped her. Progress.
"But," I continued, "writing poems is literally just you turning your feelings into words. That's it. It's like your heart… trying to talk. Quietly. Through metaphors and weird line breaks."
Rin clutched the book tighter.
I went on.
"It's actually kind of amazing. You don't just feel something—you capture it. You bottle it in ink. Like some kind of emotional alchemist."
"…I'm not good, though," she whispered.
"…but I think your poem was beautiful."
Rin's cheeks flushed—like sunrise over the forest—and she looked down at her hands folded in her lap. The book lay forgotten on the little table between us.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "R-Really?"
"Absolutely." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
"…Do you want to read some?" she asked.
"…Together?"
She nodded, pink dusting her cheeks.
Oh god.
This is it. This is my arc. I'm evolving from background character to emotionally competent love interest. Someone alert the manga artist.
We walked to the back nook. The little one with mismatched chairs and a lamp that flickered slightly, like even it was nervous around feelings.
She sat down first, smoothing her skirt nervously.
I took the seat across from her, trying not to look like a boy on the edge of a mental meltdown. Mission: failed.
She opened the book. Thin pages, thick emotions.
Her finger paused on a short poem.