Haruto stood outside the lecture hall, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark sweater, his thumb nervously brushing against the crumpled edges of his presentation cue cards. The early afternoon sun filtered in through the tall windows of the university building, casting a dappled golden light across the marble floor. Students bustled around him, laughing, chatting, hurrying to their next classes—but all he could hear was the rhythmic pounding of his own heart.
Today was the day of his first lecture presentation in Astronomy 101.
He had spent weeks preparing, poring over diagrams of stellar evolution, tracing the lifecycle of stars until he could dream in white dwarfs and red giants. He had rehearsed in front of mirrors, whispered to the moon through his dorm window, and even practiced with Aiko, who listened patiently, nodding and asking questions like the kindest professor.
Yet now, faced with the looming doorway of the hall and the whisper of a hundred unseen eyes, he felt small. Doubt crept in with quiet steps.
What if I forget a key point? What if I trip over my words? What if I bore them?
He closed his eyes and took a long breath. Aiko's voice echoed gently in his memory: "You know this better than anyone, Haruto. You're not just presenting facts. You're telling a story—the story of the stars."
He clung to that thought like a lifeline.
Inside the lecture hall, rows of students were already seated. The murmurs of conversation faded as Professor Tsukimoto entered, her presence commanding but not unkind. She nodded at Haruto with the faintest smile.
"Mr. Haruto, you're up."
He walked to the front, each step measured and careful. The projector hummed to life. He turned to face the sea of expectant faces. His breath caught for a moment—until his eyes found her.
Aiko sat in the second row, her sketchbook tucked under one arm, her smile soft and steady. She gave him a small thumbs-up, and just like that, the storm within him calmed.
Haruto cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, everyone," he began, his voice wavering slightly at first. "Today, I'll be presenting on the life cycle of stars—from their birth in nebulas to their final transformation into white dwarfs, neutron stars, or black holes."
He clicked to the first slide: a vibrant image of the Eagle Nebula, glowing in hues of blue and crimson.
"Stars," he continued, "are born in clouds of dust and gas. These nurseries—like the one pictured here—collapse under gravity, forming protostars. They are the cradles of light."
As he spoke, something shifted. His voice grew steadier, his hands more animated. He wasn't just repeating information—he was sharing wonder. The audience leaned in, drawn by the clarity of his explanations and the quiet enthusiasm laced through every word.
"When stars reach the main sequence phase," he said, clicking to the next diagram, "they burn hydrogen into helium. For most of their lives, they remain in this stable state—like our Sun, quietly burning for billions of years."
There was a pause as he advanced to a time-lapse image of a red supergiant. "But all things must change. And for massive stars, the end is dramatic."
The slide showed the explosion of a supernova, colors bursting outward in a chaotic symphony of light.
"In death," he said, his voice low and awed, "some stars give back to the universe, scattering heavy elements across space—elements that form planets... and life."
He took a breath and then added softly, "Even in their collapse, stars create beauty."
There was silence in the room. Not the bored silence of students waiting for class to end, but the kind that follows wonder. Haruto could feel it in the stillness of their posture, the way their eyes followed his every gesture.
He concluded with an image of a black hole, its event horizon rippling against the void. "And at the very end," he said, "some stars become mysteries—places where time slows, light bends, and we are left only with questions."
He looked up, met Aiko's eyes again, and smiled faintly. "But maybe... that's what makes the stars so special. They remind us how little we know. And how much there is still to explore."
The final slide faded. Haruto stood for a breathless moment before the room erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause. A few students leaned in to whisper to each other, nodding. Professor Tsukimoto gave an approving smile and a nod.
"Well done, Haruto," she said. "Clear, engaging, and thoughtful. You've captured not just the science—but the poetry of the cosmos."
He bowed slightly, cheeks tinged pink. Relief washed over him in gentle waves.
As the class was dismissed and students began filing out, Aiko waited by the door. When he reached her, she handed him a folded piece of paper from her sketchbook.
"What's this?" he asked.
She grinned. "A little something I sketched during your talk."
He opened it to find a pencil drawing of himself, standing before a vast starry sky. But instead of a classroom, he was on a stage made of stardust, galaxies swirling behind him as he spoke to an audience of planets and moons.
"You made me look like a celestial teacher," he said with a laugh.
"You were," she replied, slipping her hand into his. "I've never seen you shine quite like that."
He looked down at her, emotion catching in his throat.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Aiko squeezed his hand. "The stars would be proud."