The days blurred after that.
Each one marked by small moments—shared glances, almost-touches, and things left unsaid. But beneath it all, the clock was ticking.
Three weeks.
Now two.
Airi stood by the vending machine, punching the same coffee selection Ren always bought.
She carried the hot can to the art room. He was already there, sketching shadows again—leaning too close to the edge of the page like he was trying to climb into the scene.
She placed the can beside him without a word.
He didn't flinch. "You know, if you keep this up, I might think you're trying to take care of me."
She leaned against the table. "Maybe I am."
Ren looked up slowly.
The way his gaze lingered on her made her feel like a brushstroke on his favorite canvas.
"You're different lately," he said.
"Since when?"
"Since you started fighting the rain."
They didn't talk about the transfer again.
But it loomed—unspoken between them like thunderclouds.
Later that week, the school announced the annual cultural festival.
Airi had never cared about it before. Never stayed long enough in one place to participate. But this time, she surprised herself.
When the literature club offered a booth for original short stories and poems, she signed up.
Yui cornered her in the hallway afterward. "Okay, Miss Sudden Involvement—what's your angle?"
"No angle," Airi said. "Just… want to leave something behind."
Yui raised a brow. "Or someone."
At home, her father knocked on her door for the first time in weeks.
"Can I come in?"
Airi didn't look up from her sketchbook. "It's your house."
He entered carefully, holding a folder of papers.
"I finalized the transfer," he said. "But if you want to apply to stay with Mika or her family for the remainder of the semester…"
Airi blinked. "You'd allow that?"
"I'm… not trying to control you, Airi. I just wanted what I thought was best."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"I don't want a 'best' picked out of guilt."
"I'm not guilty," he said softly. "Just… slow to realize you stopped being a child."
She didn't forgive him.
But she didn't tell him to leave, either.
The next day, she found Ren at the courtyard bench, drenched even with the umbrella in his hand.
"You didn't open it," she noted.
He shrugged. "Felt like the rain was part of the mood."
"You're such a drama magnet."
"Only when you're around."
They sat side by side, his umbrella untouched between them.
"I might be staying," she said.
Ren turned sharply.
"But only until the end of the semester," she added. "Nothing's decided yet."
He was silent for a beat. "Why?"
"Because you gave me a sketchbook with a future in it."
Ren's voice was quiet. "I needed to believe in something."
Airi hesitated. "And now?"
He looked at her.
"I believe in you."
Rain picked up again—fat drops, summer-heavy and loud.
They didn't move.
Ren reached for the umbrella.
But then paused.
Held it out to her instead.
"I think you need it more."
She accepted it, but didn't open it.
"What about you?"
"I'll find cover."
"But what if you don't?"
He smiled—not the crooked smirk she was used to, but something softer. Sadder.
"Then maybe I'll learn to dance in it."
She stared at him as he stood, slung his bag over one shoulder, and walked off into the rain.
And that's when she saw it.
A small envelope had fallen out of his bag.
She picked it up.
Her name was written on it.
She didn't open it right away.
She carried it with her, tucked in the inside pocket of her jacket like it was a secret not yet ready to breathe.
That night, after dinner, she finally sat on her bed and unfolded it.
Airi,
I never told you everything.
Two years ago, my mom left. My dad shut down. I've been invisible ever since.
So I started drawing things no one else could see—because I was afraid I'd forget I was real.
Meeting you was like finding color again. Even in the rain.
But here's the part I never said:
I'm leaving too.
Not by choice. My dad got a job overseas. I leave in two weeks.
I didn't know how to tell you.I still don't.
But if you're reading this, then maybe I found the courage.
If we're both running from something, maybe we can meet in the middle instead.
—Ren
The umbrella was still at her feet.
She hadn't opened it since he handed it to her.
She did now—and saw something tucked inside the folds.
Another drawing.
A final one.
It was her.
Alone.
Standing in the rain.
But this time, she was looking forward, hand outstretched toward someone just off-frame.
A caption was scribbled beneath in his rough handwriting:
"You don't have to walk alone anymore."
Airi pressed the letter to her chest, eyes stinging.
The rain hit her window in rhythm.
This time, she didn't close the blinds.