Tuesday brought clearer skies, but Kaito still felt the weight of rain in his chest.
Ren arrived before the first bell this time, already in his seat when Kaito walked in. The sunlight hit his desk just right, casting thin gold lines over the black of his uniform. He looked different in the light—less like a storm and more like someone standing just beyond it.
Kaito sat down, his throat a little dry. "Morning."
Ren looked over, nodded once. "Hey."
One word, but it felt like more than yesterday.
As homeroom began, Kaito found it hard to focus. His eyes kept darting to the side—to Ren's precise handwriting, to the way he tapped his pencil once, softly, when thinking. To the tension in his jaw when someone at the front whispered something about "transfer kids always being trouble."
Ren didn't react. But Kaito noticed.
At lunch, Kaito surprised himself by waiting. He didn't leave for the courtyard like usual. He stayed at his desk, silently unpacking his bento.
Ren glanced over. "You don't usually eat here, do you?"
"You noticed?"
Ren gave a faint shrug. "You don't seem like someone who likes being watched."
Kaito blinked. "And you do?"
"I don't like being seen," Ren replied, then looked down at his food. "It's different."
Kaito wasn't sure what to say to that. The words sat with him though, heavy and sharp-edged. He opened his thermos, the scent of miso rising like steam from memory.
"My mom makes mine," he said after a moment. "Even when she's tired."
Ren nodded slowly, eyes distant. "Must be nice."
Silence again.
Kaito hesitated, then asked carefully, "Your mom doesn't cook?"
"She works nights. Sleeps during the day." A beat. "We barely talk."
There it was—just a crack in the armor. A sliver of truth.
Kaito could've said something. Offered sympathy. A shared story. But the words got tangled in his mouth. So instead, he nudged one of his rice balls across the desk without looking at Ren.
Ren stared at it.
Kaito cleared his throat. "You should eat. Even if you're not hungry."
For a long second, Ren didn't move. Then—almost cautiously—he reached out, picked it up, and took a bite.
The smallest smile ghosted across his lips. "Your mom's good."
"She is," Kaito said, cheeks warm for reasons he didn't want to examine.
For the rest of lunch, they didn't talk much. But the silence felt different now. Less like a wall. More like a bridge.
And though neither of them would say it out loud, something had shifted again.
Not a storm. Not a spark.
Just a boy quietly handing his lunch to another, and the beginning of something neither of them had words for yet.