The storm had a rhythm to it. A heavy, unrelenting beat that pressed against the glass walls of the station and drummed through the metal roof above us. I was used to storms—used to noise—but this one felt different. It wasn't just rain. It was weight.
Aya sat beside me like she was carrying half of it herself.
She hadn't opened her sketchbook again. Her fingers hovered over it, though, twitching every so often like she wanted to reach for her pencil, only to change her mind at the last second. I wondered if she even realized she was doing it.
Most people don't realize how much their bodies say before their mouths do. Aya was one of those people.
I leaned back against the bench, stretching my arms across it. The metal was cold, damp from the humidity, but I didn't mind. What I minded was how badly I wanted her to look at me.
"You're the only person here not complaining," I said.
Her shoulders tightened. She didn't turn. "…Why would I?"
"Because everyone else is. It's what people do."
"I'm not everyone else."
That earned a grin from me. "You've said that before."
"And it's still true."
Her voice was sharp, like she was cutting me off before I got too close. The problem was, I liked sharp. Sharp meant she wasn't ignoring me.
I shifted closer just a little, until the edge of my elbow brushed against her bag. "You must hate this."
She finally glanced at me, irritation flashing in her dark eyes. "…What?"
"Me. Talking. Existing next to you. You've been holding in that glare for thirty minutes now."
Her bag snapped shut, the sound loud against the storm. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" I leaned in, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "Because it feels like if I disappeared, you'd notice."
Her breath hitched. Just for a second. But I caught it.
She turned back toward the rain, muttering, "Don't flatter yourself."
I let out a soft laugh, not mocking, just warm. "See? Bristling again."
Her eyes narrowed, pencil scratching angrily over her sketchbook now. I couldn't see what she was drawing, but I had a feeling it wasn't me.
---
I should have stopped talking. That's what people expect from me—the harmless chatterbox who moves on when she's not wanted. Easy come, easy go.
But Aya didn't make me want to move on. She made me want to dig in, peel back her silence layer by layer until I found the reason behind it.
I tilted my head, studying the side of her face. Her hair fell forward, damp at the ends, sticking slightly from the rain. She hadn't bothered to fix it. That told me more than her words did.
"You're interesting, Aya," I said.
Her hand jerked mid-line. She groaned like I'd just insulted her. "…Stop saying that."
"Why? It's true."
"It's annoying."
"Good. Annoying means you're listening."
That finally made her snap her head toward me. Her eyes burned, sharp and defensive. "Why are you even talking to me?"
For once, I didn't smile right away. My answer lodged in my throat.
Why was I?
Because she looked like she was drowning in silence. Because her storms on paper felt too real to be just drawings. Because she was the first person who hadn't melted under my grin or tried to use me for it.
"Because you're here," I said finally.
She blinked, stunned, like she'd expected anything but honesty. "…That's stupid."
"Probably," I admitted with a small shrug. "But so is ignoring you."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she went back to drawing, pencil digging into the page.
I leaned back, satisfied.
---
Minutes passed. The storm didn't lighten. The announcements stayed robotic, apologizing for delays no one believed. Commuters shifted, muttered, but I stayed focused on the girl next to me.
I noticed the way her hand trembled slightly as she drew. I noticed how she bit the inside of her cheek whenever she made a line she didn't like. I noticed everything.
I'd trained myself to.
When people look at me, they see the grin, the casual lean, the easy jokes. No one bothers looking deeper. Which is fine—better, even. But watching Aya fight so hard to keep her walls up… it made me want to push.
I leaned over, letting my elbow rest lightly on the edge of her sketchbook. "What're you drawing now?"
She snapped it shut instantly, glaring daggers. "…None of your business."
"Storms again?"
Her lips pressed tighter. She shoved the sketchbook deep into her bag.
"You know," I said softly, "people don't draw storms unless they feel them."
That hit. I saw it in the way her jaw clenched, in the way her hands balled into fists in her lap.
"I said it's none of your business."
"Maybe not." I leaned back, letting her breathe, but my eyes didn't leave her. "But storms don't lie."
The thunder cracked then, so loud it rattled the glass above us. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but I caught that too.
Aya buried herself deeper into the bench, as if the world might swallow her if she stayed still enough.
---
I sighed, pulling the umbrella into my lap, spinning it absentmindedly.
"Here," I said, setting it between us.
She frowned. "…Why would I want that?"
"Because you'll get soaked going home. And you don't look like the type who remembers to carry one."
Her silence was answer enough.
"I'll manage," she muttered finally.
"Suit yourself." I left it leaning against the bench, closer to her side.
For a moment, her eyes lingered on it. On me. Then she turned away sharply, pretending she hadn't.
"You don't even know me," she whispered.
"I know your name."
"That's not knowing me."
I studied her, letting the grin fade just slightly. "Then let me."
Her pencil stilled. Her breath hitched.
She didn't answer.
So I leaned back again, letting the storm fill the silence. I didn't push further—not this time. She needed space to decide whether my words would sink in or wash away with the rain.
But I meant it.
Let me.
Because the truth was, I'd been smiling to keep my own storms at bay for far too long. And for the first time in a while, I wanted someone else to see past it.
Even if that someone was the girl who swore she wanted me gone.
---
The storm raged on, but for me, the waiting wasn't unbearable anymore. Not with Aya sitting there, sketchbook trembling in her lap, pretending she didn't care while every line of her body betrayed her.
And maybe—just maybe—when the rain finally stopped, she wouldn't be the only one carrying storms.