Rain and quiet things

The soft patter of rain contrasted gently with the sharp splash of hurried footsteps on the pavement.Umbrellas bloomed like flowers along the sidewalk—blue, navy, gray, transparent—shielding their owners from the drizzle.
Amara walked briskly, adjusting her hood to cover her face a little more, dodging puddles and eyes alike.This was the first time in weeks she had been alone.
Truly alone.
No cameras.No stylists.No journalists or chattering assistants.And, most importantly, no Naomi—her well-meaning but overbearing manager—hovering nearby like a mother hen armed with a smartphone and too many reminders.
Amara respected Naomi, she really did. The woman worked hard and had been with her since the beginning, managing her career with the precision of a chess master.But sometimes it felt suffocating—every breath monitored, every outing timed, every smile rehearsed.
She understood why.Marketing a foreign model in a mostly homogeneous country wasn’t easy. Amara had to work twice as hard, smile twice as bright, and never—ever—slip up.
Still, even stars burned out.
She had left behind a simple, quiet life in Nigeria for this. Tokyo—the city of endless lights, endless noise, and endless expectations.And now, two years later, she was tired.Tired of the flashing cameras.Tired of the rehearsed poses.Tired of pretending she belonged in every glittering room she entered.
No one ever said being famous would feel this lonely.
The glass façade of the campus library glowed faintly against the gray sky, three stories of clean lines and quiet promise. Amara ducked inside, grateful for the hush that swallowed her whole. The faint smell of paper and rain wrapped around her like a blanket.
At the entrance, she peeled off her hoodie, careful not to drip on the floor, and tucked it neatly into one of the cubbyholes.A quick tap of her student card, a polite nod at the librarian, and she was free—free to lose herself in rows of books that asked for nothing but attention.
The place was nearly empty.No bustling study groups, no med students hunched over anatomy diagrams. Just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of pages.
Amara climbed to the second floor, her footsteps muted on the carpet, and scanned the shelves. Every now and then, she subtly turned her face away whenever someone passed. She couldn’t be too careful.One candid photo of her in baggy jeans, no makeup, and bad lighting could mean an entire day of online speculation.Naomi would probably faint on the spot.
Finally, her eyes landed on the book she needed—Media Power and Identity Formation. The last English copy. A small victory.
Of course, it had to be on the top shelf.
Amara sighed, tiptoeing, stretching, willing her fingers to reach just a few centimeters higher. She was so close when a large hand reached past her and plucked the book from the shelf with ease.
She turned, startled, and found herself staring at a chest. A very tall chest.
“Here,” a voice said, warm and casual. “You looked like you needed help.”
The book appeared in front of her, and she blinked, momentarily stunned.
He was tall—taller than anyone had a right to be—and unfairly cute in a quiet, academic way. His dark hair looked like it had lost a battle with a comb, and his eyes curved kindly when he smiled.
Amara realized she was staring when he cleared his throat.
“Um—thanks,” she managed, her accent a little heavier when she was nervous.
“You’re in Mr. Takahashi’s class, right?” he asked.
Her brows lifted. “Yes… How did you know?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “All his students come looking for that book. Kind of a giveaway.”
Amara braced herself for the next part—the recognition, the widened eyes, the awkward “Wait, aren’t you that model—?” But it never came.
Instead, he smiled. “I’m Ren. I work here part-time. So if you need help finding anything—or reaching it—I’m around.”
“I’m Amara,” she said, cautiously returning the smile. “And… thanks. Again.”
Ren nodded and went back to reshelving a cart of books, humming under his breath.
Amara watched him for a moment before settling down at a table by the window. Outside, the rain had softened into a drizzle, sunlight beginning to break through the clouds.
Just as she began to lose herself in her notes, her phone buzzed.
NAOMI: You have a fitting at 7pm. Please don’t be late. Again.
Amara sighed, thumb hovering over the screen as another message appeared.
NAOMI: And please, no hoodie if paparazzi are nearby.
She groaned softly and turned her phone face down, sliding it far across the table.
For the next few hours, the world fell away. The only sound was the quiet scratch of her pen and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above.
Until a gentle tap on her table pulled her back.
“Hey,” Ren said, leaning down slightly. “We’re closing in ten minutes.”
She blinked, disoriented. “Already?”
He smiled. “Time flies when you’re buried in books. Don’t rush—I can wait while you pack up.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, tucking her things into her backpack.
When they stepped outside, the air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and distant sakura blossoms. Ren opened his umbrella and held it over both of them as they walked toward the campus gate.
“You’re not Japanese, are you?” he asked casually.
“No,” she said, amused by his curiosity. “I’m Nigerian. Moved here two years ago for… work.”
“Ah,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Your Japanese is really good.”
She grinned. “Thanks. I learned from anime and ramen shop conversations.”
He laughed—a warm, genuine sound—and Amara felt her chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Honestly,” he said, “that’s probably the most effective method.”
By the time they reached the station, the rain had stopped completely. The city shimmered under the streetlights, the sky glittering faintly with stars.
“Thanks for sharing your umbrella,” she said, pausing at the stairs.
“Anytime,” he replied easily. “You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
She hesitated, caught off guard by how much she wanted to say yes. “We’ll see.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll save you a seat anyway.”
And for the first time in weeks, Amara laughed—quiet, surprised, and real. save you a seat”