By the time Airi reached home, her hair was damp, her socks squelched in her shoes, and her fingers wouldn't stop gripping the sketch Ren had given her.
She slid it into her notebook the moment she stepped inside, like it was something too delicate for daylight.
"Airi?" her father's voice called from the living room.
She toed off her shoes and padded down the hallway, still catching her breath—not from running, but from the words Ren had said.You always pause before you open a door.And now she was doing it again.
She took a breath and stepped inside.
Her father was seated on the couch in his usual stiff, buttoned-up way—laptop open, papers spread across the coffee table. But something in his posture told her this wasn't about another meeting reschedule.
Across from him sat a woman Airi didn't recognize.
Slim. Polished. A magazine-smile fixed perfectly on her face.
Airi blinked.
"This is Mika," her father said, not bothering to get up. "She's… someone I've been seeing."
A beat passed.
Airi stared, heart catching.
"I thought we talked about not surprising me with things like this," she said flatly.
"I wanted it to be a surprise," Mika added brightly, like that made it better. "We're planning to move in together next month. Isn't that exciting?"
Airi looked at her father. He was adjusting his tie. Avoiding her eyes.
"You said we were still figuring things out," she whispered.
He gave her the same tired smile he always used when he wanted a conversation to end.
"I thought it was time."
She excused herself before she said something she'd regret.
Back in her room, she sat on her bed, the rain now just a distant whisper against the window. She opened her notebook, let the sketch fall open on her lap.
The girl in the rain looked like she belonged there—rooted in loneliness and poetry. But now the second figure, the one with the umbrella, pulled at something deep in her chest.
Airi never believed anyone truly saw her.
Until Ren did.
And that made it terrifying.
The next day, school moved around her in a blur of bells and footsteps and forgotten homework. She kept her head down, trying to avoid eye contact, especially with Mika's words echoing in her head.
We're moving in together.
She hadn't told Yui. She didn't know how to say it without sounding like she cared too much—or not enough.
But someone else noticed.
It was during lunch on the rooftop, her usual spot, when Ren showed up again.
No sketchbook this time. Just his presence—silent, but grounding.
"You look different today," he said, after a long moment of silence.
"Do I?"
"You're quieter than usual."
"That's saying something," she muttered.
He sat down next to her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him in the cool breeze.
"You okay?" he asked.
She hesitated. "No. But I will be."
He nodded like he understood, and maybe he did.
Because he said, "Sometimes when it rains, it's not about cleansing. It's about hiding."
She looked at him.
"You speak like your drawings."
"I don't like wasting words," he replied.
She smiled faintly. "Then I guess I'm the opposite."
"You write poetry," he said, as if that explained everything.
Her smile faltered.
"How do you know that?"
"I've seen you writing in the library. You hide the pages like secrets."
"They are."
They sat in silence for a while longer, but something about it felt different today. The air between them was tight, coiled with things neither had the courage to say out loud.
Finally, Ren broke it.
"I'm not going to be here much longer."
She turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap.
"My family moves a lot. Dad's work. We don't stay in one place for long."
"For how long this time?"
"Few more months, maybe."
Her throat dried. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I didn't want it to matter."
"But it does," she whispered.
After school, she skipped Yui's usual walk home and found herself back at the spot where Ren had first drawn her—the edge of the street, under the rusted lamppost.
It wasn't raining today. The sky was too clear. Too mocking.
But she waited anyway.
And he showed up.
"You remember this spot," she said.
He nodded. "You stood there like the whole world was watching you fall apart."
She crossed her arms, suddenly cold despite the sun. "You make a habit of watching girls when they fall apart?"
"Just you."
That answer shouldn't have made her heart lurch, but it did.
"Don't say that if you don't mean it," she said.
"I wouldn't have drawn it if I didn't."
Then he pulled something from his bag. Another folded piece of paper. Another sketch.
This time, it wasn't of her. It was of him.
A version of himself she hadn't seen before—vulnerable, face tilted up toward the sky like he was searching for something he couldn't name.
He handed it to her.
"You're not the only one hiding in the rain."