Episode 3 — The Rain, The Songs, The Rooftop
We always loved the rain. No matter how gloomy or sad I felt, you would pull me outside, drenching us both in the downpour like it was some secret celebration just for us. I remember you once said with a grin, "If you want to stay with me, there's only one rule."
Curious, I asked, "And what's that?"
Without missing a beat, you said, "You have to smile and be happy whenever you're with me."
I didn't want to smile that day — not really. But your silly little rule was enough to make me crack a smile anyway. I crossed my arms, trying to shield myself from the rain, but you gently opened my arms wide, letting every single drop touch my skin. Then, as if to remind me that I belonged to you, you took my hand in yours.
We ended up getting fever from being soaked, but we were careful not to let our parents worry. We took our medicines dutifully and bounced back quickly, laughing about it all as if the rain couldn't hurt us.
And oh, how we loved to sing! Neither of us had much talent for it, but that didn't stop us. Every time our favorite song came on the TV, we sang at the top of our lungs, making sure everyone in the neighborhood could hear us. We got scolded for being too loud, but the joy in our voices was worth every frown.
Our favorite place was the rooftop, where we would sit on the railing and watch the sunset paint the sky in gold and pink. Together, we'd wave goodbye to the sun and whisper wishes for it to shine brighter the next day.
You had this habit of asking me to play "doctor and patient" every afternoon after we'd slogged through nine hours of classes. Even when I was exhausted, I never said no — because playing was just another excuse to spend more time with you. Most of the time, I was the patient, and you were the doctor. It was rare when I got to be the doctor, but I didn't mind.
I knew you didn't care what others said about us — you were reckless like that from the very start. But people were right about one thing: we acted like long-lost cousins. When we argued, it wasn't calm or quiet — it was a full-on battle. Hair pulling, punches, and bruises marked the days when we couldn't agree. Yet, the next morning, a small bandage would mysteriously appear on my door, alongside a note that read, "I'm sorry, but you were at fault too."
Instead of meeting face-to-face after fights, we sent letters with just one sentence, each word carefully chosen to make the other smile. Those letters were our silent promises — that no matter what, we were there for each other. The door between us was just an object; it couldn't keep us part.