One day, Rain fell in thin, unbroken lines that night.
Izumi stood beneath the station's harsh white lights, umbrella clutched loosely in one hand as crowds surged around him. Couples huddled close beneath shared covers, shoulders touching, laughter cutting through the rain in small, careless bursts. Friends leaned into one another, trading stories he would never hear long enough to understand.
A woman near him fumbled with her phone. It slipped from her fingers and struck the ground with a dull sound. Izumi bent, picked it up, and held it out to her.
"Here."
His voice sounded practiced. Neutral. Safe.
She smiled. "Thank you."
And then she was gone swallowed by the movement of bodies and umbrellas—leaving nothing behind but damp air and the echo of her passing.
Rain seeped into Izumi's shoes. He didn't move.
As the minutes passed, a thought settled quietly into his chest, heavy and unwelcome. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked how he was and actually waited for the answer.
Later that night, he stood near the canal behind his apartment building, watching rain strike the water's surface. Streetlights reflected faintly, stretching and breaking with each ripple. People passed by in ones and twos. Some paused, bending to toss pebbles into the dark water.
The stones vanished instantly.
Izumi watched the ripples spread, then fade. He stayed there longer than he meant to, until the cold crept through his coat and into his bones.
He paused for a while and thought --
"People often throw stones into deep water, knowing the stone will never be touched again, never retrieved, never judged.Why do they do it?
Is it because, for a moment, they imagine themselves sinking with it vanishing into a depth where no one can reach them, where names, mistakes, and expectations dissolve?
Or is it because they fear being seen in that same depth exposed, helpless, and painfully human so they let the stone drown instead, carrying the weight they refuse to show?
Perhaps the water is not deep at all.Perhaps it is a mirror.And the stone is only an excuse to disturb the reflection they are too afraid to face."
The thought stayed with him, clinging like damp fabric.
That was when the bottle appeared. Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like a friend who never asked questions.
He began carrying it everywhere slipped into his bag, hidden in his coat pocket, resting beside his plate at family dinners. It never judged him. Never demanded explanations. It only offered warmth and silence, and for a while, that was enough.
His father stopped looking at him.
Not out of anger worse, but out of resignation. Conversations ended before they began. His presence became something to work around rather than acknowledge.
His mother noticed everything.
Her eyes filled with tears each time he reached for the glass. Once, late at night, she touched his hand gently and whispered, "We love you."
Her voice cracked.
"But we can't watch you disappear."
Izumi almost laughed.
He wanted to tell her he was already gone. That the version of him they remembered had faded years ago slowly, quietly like a stone sinking where no one thought to reach for it. What remained was something hollow, something that only knew how to drink and endure the space between moments.
But the words stayed trapped behind his teeth.
So he said nothing.
Now, back on the rooftop, rain streaked across the city like veins of light and shadow. Neon bled into water. The skyline blurred through tears he hadn't realized were falling.
The bottle rested loosely in his hand.
He thought of calling someone his sister, an old friend, anyone at all. His thumb hovered over his phone. What would he say? That he was lonely? That he was tired? That he didn't know how to stop, even though he wanted to?
He knew the words would come out wrong.
Or worse they'd come out perfectly.
And nothing would change.
So he stayed.
The bottle grew lighter.
The wind grew colder.
Loneliness wrapped around him like a second skin heavier than any coat, deeper than any night. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't crying out. No one would have noticed even if he had.
He was just… there.
A man surrounded by millions, standing at the edge of a depth no one noticed utterly, completely, alone.