Chapter 4: The Rain Sounds Different When You’re Not Alone

The next morning, the sky was already the color of wet ash when _ left the house.

He checked the time — early. Too early. But he walked anyway, taking the long route to school. Not because he needed the air or had errands to run. He just… didn’t want to see anyone. Or more accurately, he didn’t want anyone to see him.

He hated how easy it had become — disappearing in plain sight.

The familiar buzz of students gathering before class filled the hallways when he arrived. Voices carried laughter, jokes, casual gossip — a frequency he no longer tuned into. He passed by Classmate A, who barely nodded in acknowledgment. Classmate B bumped into him by accident, offered a quick apology, then kept moving like nothing happened.

It didn’t matter. It never had.

But then again… lately, something had changed. Or someone.

She was already in her seat when he entered the classroom. She looked up briefly from her notebook, gave him a slight smile — just the smallest curl at the corner of her lips — and returned to her notes.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But for some reason, it made it harder to breathe.

⸻

The day passed quietly. First period was dull, second felt like a blur. By third, the sky had opened up — rain splattered against the windows like soft static.

They shared a group activity in math. The teacher, unbothered by social dynamics, paired students alphabetically. She and _ ended up at the same desk again.

She nudged her chair a little closer, their knees nearly touching. He stiffened instinctively. She noticed.

“You’re acting like I’m going to bite you,” she teased gently, voice just above a whisper.

He looked away. “I’m not used to people sitting that close.”

Her eyes flicked toward his — not mocking, not judging. Just… observing.

“Well,” she said, “I’m not used to someone who always looks like he’s five seconds from vanishing into thin air.”

A beat of silence. Then she added, softer this time:

“But I think you’re trying. Even if it’s just a little.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.

⸻

During lunch, he found his usual quiet spot by the back stairwell — the one students rarely visited.

But today, she found him there.

“No lunch?” she asked, plopping down beside him with a sandwich in hand.

He pulled out a half-eaten convenience store onigiri. “Not really hungry.”

She unwrapped her sandwich with a dramatic sigh. “You have the eating habits of a tragic novel protagonist.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I didn’t realize you read tragic novels.”

“I do,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “But only the ones where someone keeps trying, even if they know it’s going to end badly.”

There it was again — that strange way she talked. Like she understood something unspoken. Like she’d seen past the version of him everyone else accepted at face value.

It unsettled him. But more than that, it scared him.

Because people who saw too much always ended up hurt.

“You shouldn’t sit with me,” he said suddenly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I’m not… someone you need to get involved with.”

She tilted her head, smile fading slightly. “Then maybe I want to.”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of rain tapping rhythmically against the metal stairwell door.

⸻

Later that afternoon, after school ended and umbrellas bloomed open outside the gates like flowers in a storm, he stood in the covered walkway, watching students disappear into the gray.

He didn’t move.

Behind him, her voice:

“Did you forget yours again?”

He turned. She held out her umbrella.

Again.

He stared at it. Then at her. Then slowly reached out to take the handle.

“I won’t always be here to offer this,” she said. There was no malice in her tone, just a quiet warning.

“I know,” he said.

They stood there under the awning for a moment longer — two people who didn’t know what to say, but somehow said enough just by being there.

As the rain poured down harder, _ stepped out into it alone. But the umbrella over his head wasn’t his.

And the warmth in his chest, faint as it was, wasn’t from staying dry.