Rainwater soaked into Airi's socks as she stood at the bus stop with Ren.
She should have been shivering. Instead, her heart beat louder than the storm around them.
"You should go home," she said.
Ren shook his head. "Not yet."
They stood there like that—still, unspeaking, like something was balancing between them. Something fragile.
Airi finally broke the silence. "I hate how easy it is for adults to make decisions for us. Like we're just… things to be moved."
Ren's voice was low. "That's why I draw. To prove I exist somewhere no one else can touch."
When the bus pulled in, she didn't get on.
Ren didn't ask why.
They walked instead, in silence, through puddles and neon reflections. The rain had lessened, but it still clung to her skin like static.
He stopped at the corner store and bought two hot canned coffees from the vending machine. Handed one to her.
She took it with a soft thanks.
"This feels like a goodbye scene," she said, trying to smile.
"It isn't," Ren replied. "Not yet."
That night, Airi sat on her bedroom floor, the hot can still in her hands even though it had long gone cold.
She pulled out his sketch—the first one, the one of her standing alone in the rain. Then the second. Then the one of the two of them under the same streetlamp, not quite touching.
All of them were unfinished.
Half-sentences.
Like their story.
The next morning, she beat her father to the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, surprised. "You're up early."
"I saw the email."
His brows tightened.
"I was going to talk to you about that tonight—"
"Don't bother," she said sharply. "You already made the decision."
He sighed, poured coffee, leaned on the counter like that made him more reasonable. "It's a better school. You'll have your own room, better access to art programs. I thought you'd like that."
"It's not about the school," she said. "It's about you not saying anything."
"We're a family, Airi—"
"No," she snapped. "We're a family when it's convenient."
He flinched. For once, he didn't have a reply.
The rest of the day moved in fragments.
Yui found her between classes. "Okay, you're giving serious main-character energy today. What happened?"
Airi didn't answer.
Instead, she passed her a folded piece of paper.
Ren's sketch.
The new one.
Yui unfolded it slowly. "Is this…"
"He drew it last night."
Yui stared. "You're… holding hands in this one."
"Yeah."
There was a long pause.
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"That you might actually like him."
Airi looked out the window. "I'm not sure it matters."
"Then you don't get to be mad when he leaves."
She found Ren after school in the art room, where he was alone—music humming through a tiny speaker, pencil dancing across a fresh canvas.
He didn't look up when she entered.
"Was wondering if you'd come."
"I almost didn't."
He smirked, eyes still on his drawing. "That's kind of your thing, though. Almosts."
She stepped closer. "You talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing."
"I've been saving my words."
He finally looked up.
Their eyes met—and something passed between them. Familiar. Frightening.
"I don't want this to be an almost," she whispered.
Ren put down his pencil. "Then tell me something real."
She hesitated.
Then: "I've never stayed in one place long enough to let someone matter. But you… you matter. And I hate that I might lose you before I figure out what that means."
Ren exhaled. Slowly.
Then he reached into his bag, pulled out a small wrapped package, and handed it to her.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
Inside was a sketchbook.
Blank.
Except the first page.
Where he had drawn them—facing each other, under a shared umbrella, holding hands.
Complete.
Finished.
"Why give this to me?" she asked.
"Because I want you to fill the rest," he said. "And because I needed to prove I could draw something that might last."
That night, Airi didn't sleep.
She filled page after page—poetry, words she never dared say out loud, memories she didn't want to forget. She sketched too, badly, but it didn't matter. The pages were alive.
And the next morning, she handed the book back to him in the school hallway.
"It's yours now," she said. "So I'll have a reason to find you again if I leave."
Ren opened it. Read one line.
"I'm not afraid of the rain anymore—only of what comes after."
He closed the book and met her eyes.
"I think I just figured out what comes after."
eets near the station were quiet, the shutters of old stores half-closed, and the river wore a stillness that mirrored the gray sky above. It was the kind of day where time seemed to pause—just long enough to feel the weight of memories.
Airi Minase stepped onto the gravel path leading up the hill, a bouquet of white lilies cradled in her arms.
Her mother had liked lilies.
"They smell too strong," her grandmother always said.
But Airi liked them anyway. The scent lingered. Like perfume that refused to fade.
The cemetery sat atop a quiet slope, nestled behind a low gate and rows of evergreens. It overlooked the town—rooftops stacked like blocks, power lines stretching like veins across the sky.
She stopped at the grave. Her mother's name was carved in smooth, pale stone. The characters were neat, elegant, distant.
Airi knelt and placed the flowers down gently.
For a while, she didn't speak. The silence between them—between her and the stone—was the kind that didn't ask for words.
She reached into her pocket and unfolded a scrap of paper: a poem her mother had once written, scrawled in soft ink.
"Even the rain does not mourn like I do—It only falls."
Airi read the line again.
Then again.
The ache in her chest swelled, but her eyes stayed dry.
"I'm okay," she said, barely a whisper. "I'm trying to be, at least."
Her voice broke slightly. She bit the inside of her cheek.
"I met someone. A boy. He draws. A lot."
She smiled faintly, almost embarrassed.
"He said I look like part of the rain."
She touched the corner of the headstone with two fingers.
"I think... you would have liked him."
The wind rustled the trees gently, like a quiet reply.
She didn't notice the footsteps until they stopped behind her.
"Hey," said a familiar voice. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
Airi turned.
Ren stood just past the gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small can of iced coffee. He looked a little out of place—like someone who had wandered into the wrong memory.
She blinked. "What are you doing here?"
He held up the can. "Visiting."
She tilted her head.
He glanced toward the row behind her. "My brother's over there."
Airi said nothing. She stepped aside so he could pass.
He walked up to a grave a few meters away. Simple. Unadorned. He placed the can on the ground, crouched for a moment, then stood again.
"No flowers," he said. "He would've rolled his eyes."
Airi watched him, unsure what to say.
Ren turned back to her. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
She nodded. "I come every Saturday."
"Every week?"
"It's the only thing that still feels... normal."
He said nothing to that.
They stood in silence, the breeze gently nudging their hair, the world hushed like an old photo.
Then he spoke, softly. "My brother used to draw, too."
Airi's eyes widened. "Really?"
"He was better than me. Way better." He looked off toward the trees. "He used to say every line was like a breath. If it doesn't feel alive, don't draw it."
There was a strange smile on his lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"He died in an accident," he added. "Two years ago."
Airi's throat tightened.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Ren looked down at his shoes. "It's okay. I don't think people know what to say to stuff like that. I didn't either."
Airi looked at the bouquet she had just placed. "Sometimes I think about all the things I never got to say."
"Same."
Another pause.
"Do you still draw because of him?" she asked quietly.
Ren's answer was immediate. "No. I stopped for almost a year. Couldn't even hold a pencil. Then one day, I started sketching on a napkin at a café. Didn't even realize I was doing it."
Airi watched him.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I draw because it feels like breathing again."
She nodded slowly.
He glanced over at her. "What about you? Why poetry?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe because I couldn't say things out loud."
He tilted his head, considering. "You write your own?"
"Sometimes."
"Read me one?"
Her eyes widened. "Now?"
"Yeah. Right now."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out the same folded paper from earlier.
She held it up, her voice soft but steady.
"Even the rain does not mourn like I do—It only falls."
Ren blinked. He didn't speak for a moment.
Then: "That's beautiful."
"It's not mine," she said. "My mother wrote it."
He looked at her again, but differently this time—like he was seeing something fragile and rare.
"I wish I could've met her," he said.
Airi didn't know how to respond. So she just nodded.
They walked down the hill together, side by side.
They didn't speak again until they reached the bottom, where the path split toward different neighborhoods.
Ren stopped.
"I didn't think today would be anything but difficult," he said. "But I'm glad I saw you."
Airi looked up. "Me too."
He hesitated for a beat. "Same time next week?"
She smiled—small, but real. "Maybe."
He grinned. "I'll bring flowers."
"For your brother?"
He shook his head. "No. For the girl who writes poems in the rain."
That night, Airi stood by her window as the wind blew gently through the curtains. The sky above was still heavy, and the stars remained hidden.
She placed the poem back into her drawer.
And beside it, she tucked something new: a blank page.
Tomorrow, maybe, she would try to fill it.
Not for her mother.
Not for Ren.
But for herself.