Her finger paused on a short poem.
"When morning's argent breath suffuses leaden skies,
My heart's corpuscles murmur in an elegiac pulse;
I parse the meager solace of your diaphanous replies,
Yet find in chiaroscuro dreams an oxymoronic convulse.
Though labyrinthine doubts besiege my quiet mind,
And synecdoche of sorrow grips my weary chest,
I chart the chiaroscuro arc—where light and dark unwind—
To harvest epiphanies in this ontological quest.
At cusp of ephemerality, I taste the infinite;
A palimpsest of longing etched upon transient air."
My eyes welled up—not from understanding, but from sheer awe. "Whoa. That's… that's a lot."
She inhaled. "Mizuki-kun, See the enjambment between lines three and four? It's designed to juxtapose 'diaphanous replies' with the 'oxymoronic convulse,' emphasizing the emotional dissonance."
I nodded so vigorously I nearly launched out of my chair. Emotional dis-what-now? Oh man, my brain is leaking…
Rin's eyes lit up. "And the synecdoche in line six—'synecdoche of sorrow'—uses 'sorrow' to represent the myriad small pains I endure. It's a metonymic shift that underscores the poem's thematic concentration."
"Metonymic… shift…" I repeated, grinning. "Sounds like something you need a PhD to decode, but I'm on board. Sign me up for Team Synecdoche."
She laughed softly, the sound rippling through the quiet nook. Encouraged, I flipped the page.
"Here's another," she said, cheeks flushed. "This one's a villanelle—but with a caesura in every tercet, breaking the iambic pentameter for postmodern fragmentation."
I nearly choked on my breath. A villane-what-with? Please stop. At this point of time, I started regretting.
She read:
"I carve the void with words that half retreat—
(Pause here, where sense and silence intertwine);
A fractured heartbeat echoes in defeat—
(Break lines, let broken syntax realign).
Each stanza bleeds in threefold reiteration—
Yet meaning drifts like ash upon the wind;
I trace the fissure of my desolation—
(Pause, then pick the pieces up, chagrined).
Rin giggled. "It's intentionally dissonant. The caesuras fragment the rhythm so the sense of hope and despair collide in midair."
"Collide in midair," I echoed, nodding sagely. "Like two trains of thought meeting at a station otherwise abandoned."
She stared at me, then laughed outright. "You're ridiculous."
"But in a good way," I assured her. "You're a genius, Kamoshida-san."
Her blush deepened.
I sank back against the chair and blinked. Ten minutes ago, this was the same shy, stuttering Rin who blushed at my shadow. Now she's decoding Petrarchan sonnets like a professor emerita.
What the hell are all these difficult words? Caesura, synecdoche, palimpsest… I half expected her next line to include "anacoluthon" or "zeugma."
I always thought poetry was just… you know, stringing some pretty words together until it sounds nice. Maybe I'd write something like "The moon whispers softly"—end of poem.
Apparently that's criminally simplistic in the world of literary alchemy.
No wonder I flunked literature; I was playing tanka in a world of villanelles and alexandrines.
We kept at it. Turned page after page for what felt like an hour, then another. Rin's enthusiasm never wavered.
Rin closed the poetry volume with a satisfied sigh. "That was… incredible," she murmured.
12:30 a.m.
Midtown Park.
Rin and I both exited the book café.
The sky was cloudless. Sunlight filtered through the budding branches like a soft golden curtain, theatrical and unnecessary, like nature decided to cosplay as a romantic shoujo manga background. Sakura petals floated down like they didn't get the memo that it was still too early to be dramatic.
The breeze was that perfect kind of crisp—not cold enough to complain about, but just enough to make me jam my hands into my jacket pockets like I was trying to look cool instead of just... awkward.
I snuck a glance at Rin.
She was walking beside me, close enough that I could hear the soft crunch of her sneakers on the gravel. When her eyes caught a dog wagging its tail or a kid chasing another in a game of tag, they lit up like morning windows—sunlight pouring in all at once.
Classroom Rin: quiet, notebook-clutching, eyes-down shy.
Outdoor Rin: still shy, but upgraded. Now with bonus sparkles and unfiltered joy.
Note to self: petition to hold all classes outdoors starting immediately. Bonus points if there's a dog.
Without thirty other students around, fluorescent lights buzzing like depressed cicadas, and teachers watching like unpaid prison guards, Rin looked… well, like someone who could actually smile without needing an exorcist first.
Her voice earlier at the book café had been bright and loud. Not just "answering a question in class" loud. More like "hey-I'm-enjoying-this" loud.
She wasn't hugging her notebook like it was a bulletproof shield anymore, either. Her hands were gently clasped in front of her as she walked. Her bag was slung casually to the side, bouncing a little with each step like it had its own upbeat theme music.
We walked side by side in silence.
Not the awkward kind.
The good kind.
The kind of silence that says, "Hey, we're not talking, but I know you're here and that's enough."
…And then it happened.
Our hands brushed.
Just for a second.
Barely more than a whisper.
Her fingers grazed mine, like two air molecules accidentally making eye contact.
Instantly, she stiffened.
So did I.
(Internally, I performed a triple backflip into the sea of social panic.)
Neither of us looked at the other.
Neither of us said a word.
But in the corner of her lips, I swear—there it was.
The tiniest smile.