Chapter 7: Rooftop Rain

—Because if there’s anything worse than standing in the rain, it’s realizing you don’t mind it when she’s there.

---

Rain makes everything honest.

It strips away the fake shine, the bright colors, the pretense. People look smaller under rain. Truth looks bigger.

I hate honesty. It’s messy. It ruins things you pretend to believe in.

So, naturally, I hate rain.

Which explains why I was standing in it.

Not because I wanted to. But because I saw her.

---

Yume.

Sitting on a rusted rooftop rail like the world wasn’t busy trying to drown her. Her hair clung to her cheeks, soaked through, and her hands moved lazily across the keys of that battered keyboard she must’ve dragged up here just to give gravity the middle finger.

The sound was… imperfect. A little broken.

But soft. Like the rain wanted to listen too.

Her face tilted up, blind eyes open like she could feel the sky looking back.

Water streamed down her lashes, dripping off her chin. And she was smiling. Actually smiling, like this rooftop was a stage and the storm was her audience.

I stood there like an idiot for what felt like hours. Watching.

And then I walked closer, because apparently, I’ve lost all concept of self-preservation.

“You’ll catch a cold,” I said. Which was a stupid thing to say, because clichés sound worse when you mean them.

She laughed. Not a soft laugh. A real, unashamed one that cracked through the rain like sunlight.

> “And here I thought you didn’t talk.”

“Guess I changed.”

“Guess you did.”

The rooftop was slick, puddles reflecting broken city lights. I sat on the edge, a few feet from her, because personal space is important when you’re emotionally constipated.

“You always play in the rain?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “First time.”

Then she tilted her head toward me, lips curved in that annoying calm smile.

> “Thought it’d feel like… something big.”

“And does it?”

She nodded. Slowly.

> “It feels like… I don’t know. Like the world’s crying with me. Or for me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

---

She kept her face tilted up, raindrops sliding down her skin like silver lines.

> “I wish I could see it,” she said suddenly.

“The rain?”

“No.”

Her voice softened, like the words were glass in her throat.

> “The sky. Just once. Before I die.”

And then she laughed. Like it was a joke. Like she could erase the weight of it by pretending it didn’t matter.

But her voice cracked on the last note. Just barely.

Enough for someone like me to hear it.

I clenched my fists against the cold rail. My nails bit my palms, but it didn’t stop the storm twisting in my chest.

“…It’s gray,” I said finally.

She turned her head toward me.

> “Gray?”

“Yeah.” I looked up at the endless wash above us, words dragging out of me like they didn’t want to leave.

“Like old steel. Or… like the inside of smoke.”

I paused.

“…But when the light hits it, it looks softer. Like… someone painted silver over the whole sky and forgot to make it perfect.”

Wow. Congratulations, Kazuki. That might be the most poetic thing you’ve ever said. Which is tragic, considering it sounded like a drunk construction worker describing wallpaper.

But she smiled.

Like it was enough.

Like she could see it in her head.

> “Silver sky, huh? Sounds beautiful.”

“You’d hate it,” I said. “It’s cold. Heavy. Makes people lonely.”

“I’m already lonely,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. Because if I did, I’d have to admit I was too.

---

The rain kept falling, tracing lines down our faces until you couldn’t tell what was water and what was something else.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate the honesty.

---

We stayed there until the storm softened into mist and the city lights blurred like melted stars. She kept playing that broken keyboard, and I kept pretending I wasn’t memorizing the sound of her voice every time she laughed.

When we finally left, neither of us said goodbye.

Because leaving without saying it feels like you’ll come back.

And God help me, I wanted to.