Saturday morning settled in with the restless kind of quiet that only a rainy weekend can bring—a stillness that both soothes and unsettles. It was the kind of silence that made you hyper-aware of small sounds: the distant hum of a car engine outside, the soft creak of the window hinge, even the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.
The borrowed umbrella rested against the side of my desk, its dark blue fabric still faintly damp at the edges. I had dried it carefully the night before, but it retained that unmistakable scent—the sharp, clean smell of wet asphalt mixed with soap, with just a whisper of cologne that reminded me of him. I couldn't stop glancing at it. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. It wasn't mine. It belonged to him—Ren Jiayun.
Holding something he had touched—something he had handed me so casually—felt strange, intimate in a way I hadn't expected. It made my chest tighten, just a little, every time I reached for it. His words echoed quietly in my mind: Keep it. I like the rain.
Did he really mean it? Or were those just words to ease the awkwardness of the moment? He never struck me as a boy who overthought little gestures. Maybe he would forget the umbrella by tomorrow. Maybe it hadn't meant anything at all.
But to me, it meant everything.
---
Monday arrived faster than I expected. The sky was clear, but a cool breeze still carried the fresh, clean scent of rain, wrapping the city in that familiar calm after the storm. I folded the umbrella neatly and slipped it into my bag before leaving the house.
The walk to school felt longer than usual—not because the distance had changed, but because my mind refused to stay still. Thoughts spun endlessly, looping like a song I couldn't escape. What do I say when I see him? Should I thank him again? Hand the umbrella back silently, like it was no big deal? Or wait until after class, when fewer eyes are watching?
By the time I reached the school gates, my nerves had wound tight. Class 10-B buzzed with energy—students sharing weekend stories, laughing loudly, some hunched over last-minute homework. I felt like I was moving through another world, one separate from the noise, separate from everyone but him.
There he was—by the window, as usual.
Ren Jiayun sat with his chair tilted back precariously, spinning a pen lazily between his fingers. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere far outside, unreadable. Sunlight streamed in, filtering through the glass and softening his sharp features. For a moment, he looked almost unreal, like a figure out of a painting, frozen in a private world that no one could enter.
I froze in the doorway, clutching the strap of my bag. Should I go over to him? Say something? My throat felt dry, my hands clammy. Then… his eyes met mine.
It was no accidental glance. No fleeting flicker of recognition. His gaze met mine steadily, calmly—calm and unreadable. With the slightest tilt of his chin, he gave a quiet nod, a tiny acknowledgment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he returned to the window, spinning his pen between his fingers again.
It was a small gesture—but it was the first time he had looked at me since that rainy day.
My heart thumped in my chest as I walked to my desk. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the umbrella from my bag and placed it on the corner, the fabric still faintly damp under my fingers. I debated whether to walk over and return it now, but before I could decide, the teacher entered, and class began.
---
The morning passed in a blur of lectures, notes, and scribbled numbers. My eyes kept drifting toward him. He rarely spoke, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, yet sometimes, when he shared a brief joke or comment with his friends, a small smile would tug at the corner of his lips. I watched closely, trying to catch the meaning behind the quiet expression. He wasn't just a boy by the window—he was a puzzle I wanted to solve, piece by piece.
When the lunch bell rang, I stood, umbrella in hand, my stomach twisting with anticipation. My chance had come.
But before I could take a step toward him, he rose first, slinging his bag over one shoulder, chatting briefly with a friend, then confidently striding toward the door. A pang of disappointment struck me hard. I sank back into my seat, clutching the umbrella even tighter. Maybe after school. Maybe it wasn't the right time yet.
---
I made my way to my quiet refuge beneath the old banyan tree in the courtyard. The sun had returned, warming the damp grass. I opened my lunch quietly, trying to push thoughts of Ren Jiayun to the back of my mind. The world seemed so ordinary here—so still—until a shadow fell across my notebook.
"Is this your usual place?"
My heart skipped a beat.
He was there, standing casually beside me, holding a juice carton loosely in one hand, bag slung lazily over a shoulder. His uniform was casually perfect—tie loose, sleeves rolled halfway—effortless in every detail.
"I guess so," I whispered.
He settled beside me, one knee bent, elbow resting lightly on it. He took a slow sip of juice, glanced around the courtyard, and finally let his gaze settle on me.
"You didn't give it back yesterday morning," he said.
My fingers clenched around the umbrella handle. "I didn't want to interrupt."
He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. "Interrupt what? I wasn't doing anything."
I faltered, words failing me.
Leaning slightly closer, he added, "You were waiting for me to ask, weren't you?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "No! I was just—"
"I'm joking," he said quickly, his laugh low and private. Warm. Unlike the careless laughs he shared with his friends, this felt intimate, almost shared between just the two of us.
I carefully placed the umbrella between us. "Thanks for lending it."
He folded it with practiced ease and set it aside. "Did you get home okay?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He leaned back against the tree trunk, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You like sitting here alone?"
I nodded softly. "It's quiet."
He hummed thoughtfully. "Most people don't like quiet. It makes them uncomfortable."
"I don't mind," I whispered.
He studied me in silence for a long moment, as if measuring something invisible, then said softly: "You're different."
The word struck me deep inside—simple, yet heavy. Different. Was that good? Bad? A warning? A compliment? I couldn't tell.
Before I could ask, a shout echoed from across the yard.
"Ren! Gym time!"
He turned toward his friends, gave me a quick wave, and rose to his feet.
But before he left, he glanced back.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Yixin."
My name—spoken aloud—for the first time.
Like the rain from last week, that moment left a trace that wouldn't fade.
He walked away with his usual easy confidence, leaving me beneath the banyan tree, heart pounding uncontrollably.
Because now, he wasn't just Ren Jiayun—the boy by the window.
He was Ren Jiayun who noticed where I sat. Who remembered my name. Who chose—even if only for a moment—to sit beside me.
And maybe… tomorrow would be different too.