The notice had been pinned neatly to the announcement board in the student union hall — bold letters reading "University Debate Team: Open Auditions – All Years Welcome." Haruto hadn't paid much attention to it at first, brushing past as he usually did, his thoughts filled with equations and telescope rotations. But the next day, as he waited for Aiko by the campus café, his eyes strayed back to the flyer, and something in its directness called to him.
Aiko arrived moments later, cheeks pink from the wind, two cups of hot cocoa balanced in her hands. "You're staring," she said, handing him a cup.
Haruto smiled. "Do you think I talk too little?"
Aiko's eyebrows rose. "This is a trap, isn't it?"
He laughed. "No, I mean it. I saw this debate team thing and wondered if maybe… I should try."
Aiko blinked, genuinely surprised. "You? Debating?"
"Exactly," Haruto replied, chuckling. "That's why it's interesting. I've always been quiet. Observing, listening. But lately, I feel like I want to learn how to express myself better. Speak confidently."
She looked at him with a slow, warm smile. "Then you should absolutely go for it."
And so he did.
The auditions were held in one of the old lecture halls, where oak panels lined the walls and dust motes drifted in golden beams from high windows. Haruto arrived early, heart thudding with that strange mixture of excitement and dread that always accompanied trying something new.
He sat among a group of students — some flipping through debate manuals, others nervously whispering practice arguments. Haruto had prepared as best he could: hours spent watching old debates online, reading logic books, and mentally rehearsing rebuttals in the shower.
When his name was called, he stepped onto the small podium at the front. The topic was drawn at random: "Technology hinders human connection more than it helps it."
The moment stretched. The room was too quiet. The judging panel — a trio of professors and two senior debaters — watched him with unreadable expressions.
Haruto exhaled slowly. Then, he began.
His voice trembled at first, but he kept going. He spoke of stargazing alone on apps versus lying in the grass beside someone. Of how screens gave people the illusion of closeness, while real connection asked for presence. He gave examples, drew lines of reasoning, built his case gently, firmly.
By the time he finished, the room was still — not in discomfort, but in something like respect. One of the senior members nodded subtly. The professor in the center scribbled notes and offered a small smile.
He didn't win the highest score that day, but he earned something more valuable: an invitation to join as a junior member, with potential to become a main speaker in the spring competitions.
When Haruto told Aiko, she clapped her hands with pure delight. "I knew you'd do it! You're going to be amazing."
"It was terrifying," he admitted, grinning. "But... good terrifying."
As the semester rolled on, debate practices became part of his weekly rhythm. Each session honed a new skill — clarity, brevity, persuasion, listening. He learned to think on his feet, to stand tall even when challenged, to see the world not just in facts, but in arguments, in layered truths.
Aiko, ever his biggest supporter, sometimes sat quietly in the back during open rehearsals, sketching him as he spoke, her eyes following his every movement. "You look different when you're up there," she once told him. "Not someone else. Just... more of you."
His first actual debate came sooner than expected. A teammate had fallen ill, and Haruto was asked to step in. The topic: "Space exploration is a waste of resources in the face of Earth's problems."
Haruto's pulse surged. This was his world — the stars, the unknown, the awe of it all. He spoke not just with logic, but with quiet passion, weaving stories of curiosity, of the scientific breakthroughs sparked by space tech, of hope and vision.
They didn't win the match — the opposing team had experience and polish — but Haruto's performance earned him commendation from the judges and a handshake from the opposing captain.
Afterward, Aiko met him outside the hall, holding up a small sketch. It was him, mid-speech, hand raised slightly, eyes alight. "I call it 'Voice of the Stars,'" she said softly.
He took it in his hands and looked at her, emotion rising in his throat. "You really believe in me, don't you?"
"Always," she whispered.
That night, Haruto sat on their dorm rooftop with his notes scattered beside him, the city glowing beneath the dark sky. The stars were faint above Tokyo, but he knew they were there — burning, distant, watching.
Much like debate, they reminded him that silence could hold meaning, but a voice — a voice used with truth and intent — could shine just as brightly.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself speaking to the stars one day, not as a quiet boy unsure of himself, but as someone who had learned to believe in the power of his own words.
And in that belief, he found a new kind of freedom.