The poetry room buzzed with life. It was a rainy afternoon, and though the clouds hung low outside, inside Professor Langston's voice held the class together like thread through a patchwork quilt of minds. A tall man with wiry glasses and an ever-watchful gaze, Langston stood before his students, arms folded, nodding thoughtfully.
"I have an announcement," he began, his voice like aged parchment. "This year, our academy will be participating in the Intercollegiate Poetry Meet."
Murmurs broke through the room like wind through dry leaves.
Langston raised a hand. "It's not just any meet. The winners will be awarded significant scholarships—an Ivy League placement for first prize, and substantial cash prizes for the top three. Fifty thousand pounds for first place. Thirty thousand for second. Fifteen for third."
The room fell into a stunned hush.
He smiled slightly. "I'll be selecting four students to represent us. Based on your past submissions and class involvement, I've chosen: Andrew, Emma, Kate, and..." he paused dramatically, "Michael."
Kate leaned toward Andrew and whispered, "That's big. This could change everything."
Andrew nodded slightly, though his face remained unreadable.
Michael, lounging with his legs crossed, gave a smug smirk.
Langston continued, "You have one week. Two days before the event, we'll travel together to the venue and spend the night preparing. That means I expect finished drafts, rewrites, performance-ready pieces, and nerves of steel."
The class rustled with excitement.
Outside the class, rain traced the windows like delicate script.
---
In the days that followed, the four spent long hours in the poetry lab. It was a tucked-away room filled with worn books, soft couches, and thick-scented ink. Each of them staked a corner and worked in silence, words scratching paper like whispers in the dark.
Michael, to Andrew's surprise, proved a surprisingly earnest partner during critiques. "You've got imagery, man," he said one evening, looking at Andrew's piece. "But your rhythm slips here."
Andrew frowned and adjusted the line. "Like that?"
Michael nodded. "Better."
Kate, on the other hand, acted as both Andrew's editor and emotional compass. She read each of his stanzas with deep care, occasionally circling words with a red pen, often offering gentle nudges. "Don't soften the truth, Andrew. Say what you mean."
Emma floated around the group like a quiet ghost. She often read by herself, headphones in, but there were moments—fleeting, strange—where her gaze lingered on Andrew longer than necessary.
Two days before the event, they gathered in the academy's courtyard, luggage packed for the overnight trip to the host college. The atmosphere buzzed with nervous tension.
On the train ride, Andrew sat by the window, watching the countryside slip by in green blurs. Emma sat across from him, sketching lines into her journal. When Kate went to get coffee, Emma spoke up.
"I read your last piece."
Andrew looked up. "Yeah?"
She smiled faintly. "It felt... raw. Like you wrote it with your blood."
He gave a half-smile. "Felt that way writing it."
A silence settled between them, comfortable, yet fraught.
"Do you miss it?" Emma asked.
"What?"
"Us. The way things were."
He paused. "Sometimes. But I think I miss the version of you I imagined."
She didn't respond. Kate returned moments later, breaking the moment, her eyes flicking between them with thinly veiled caution.
---
That evening, they reached the host college. It was an old Gothic structure nestled in a valley, surrounded by foggy hills. Their rooms were cozy, fireplaces lit in the common lounges, and rain fell steadily outside.
Langston gathered them for a final prep session in a private hall. He paced slowly. "This is where you separate yourselves. Some of you have potential, but potential doesn't win competitions. Precision does. Performance. Passion."
Each student presented a draft of their final poem. Michael delivered a gritty, aggressive piece about identity and rebirth. Emma's was soft and surreal, touching on memory and dreams. Kate's poem was a quiet crescendo of longing and restraint.
Then Andrew stood.
His poem—still untitled—unfolded slowly. It was about longing, about standing in a doorway and watching the rain fall while everything he wanted walked away. His voice didn't rise; it cracked. It didn't boast; it trembled.
When he finished, there was a long silence.
Langston nodded. "That's what you lead with."
Kate touched his arm as he sat. "That was... beautiful."
Michael gave a nod. "You're up there now."
Andrew looked out the tall windows. Rain still fell.
---
As the competition neared, the school buzzed. Flyers went up. Poets from other academies arrived, creating an atmosphere of gentle rivalry. The smell of ink and old books filled the air.
Kate found Andrew by the library, scribbling furiously.
"You're going for it, aren't you?" she said.
He looked up. "What?"
"First place."
Andrew didn't respond right away. "I don't know what I'm going for anymore. I just know I need to say it. All of it. Finally."
Kate smiled. "Then say it like the world is listening."
And as the night fell over the fog-covered hills, their words were all that lingered, echoing against the storm.