Act 2: Rainy Encounter

The words Koba Natsuki spoke on that stage refused to leave me. They stirred something warm and uneasy in my chest, a feeling I had not experienced since I had started running. It was a feeling that had slowly faded as I suffered the same defeats over and over, until it became little more than a faint ember hidden in a corner of my heart.

Some people are able to take a loss and turn it into fuel. Others eventually learn how to cope with it. I always believed I belonged to the first group. But at some point, I stopped learning anything from my losses. I simply endured them. The track, which once felt like home, started to feel heavier every time I stepped onto it. Every practice became something routine and hollow, something I performed out of habit rather than desire. By the time I entered college, running was no longer my passion. It was an obligation, the bare minimum I needed to uphold my scholarship.

I kept insisting to myself that I had not completely given up. Maybe that was a lie. Maybe I had been running on empty for so long that I forgot what it felt like to want something with my whole heart.

Yet after watching Koba Natsuki that day, after witnessing the fire she carried in her voice and her presence, that forgotten feeling inside me began to flicker again.

~~~

It was 6:05 a.m. and the sky was still a pale wash of blue, the first rays of sunlight barely brushing the rooftops.

I slipped into my training clothes, the fabric stretching comfortably against my skin.

My hand reached for my phone, still plugged into the charger. I tapped the screen and opened the weather app. Cold, with a chance of rain. I glanced toward my wardrobe and saw the black raincoat hanging slightly wrinkled at the edge of the rack. Bold white letters spelled out “Kaisei University” across the chest, faded just enough to show it had been worn often. Without hesitation, I pulled it on.

The thought of bringing an umbrella flashed in my mind. Another set of protection wouldn’t hurt. I bent down to the drawer beneath the dresser and rummaged until I found the compact water shield. I held it for a moment, the smooth handle warming my fingers as I clipped it through the loop on my jacket, keeping it secure when I run.

I walked to the entry way and bent down to tie my black running shoes, taking care with each loop. The laces were snug and the grip of the soles against the floor was solid and reassuring. Normally I would have thrown the shoes on in a rush, indifferent to comfort or fit, but today I lingered. I flexed my toes, testing the bend of the shoe and listening to the faint creak of the laces.

When I finally stepped outside, the cold air struck my cheeks, sharp but invigorating. The faint scent of dew clung to the grass and a chill whispered through my lungs as I inhaled. The city around me was still waking, a distant hum of cars and birds forming a quiet soundtrack to the morning. My breath clouded in the air and I noticed it, a small proof that I was awake, alert and ready.

Every step toward my destination felt deliberate, a small assertion of control over a body and a routine that had once been empty. My shoes pressed into the pavement rhythmically, my arms swinging naturally at my sides. After following this routine for the past two months, practice did not feel like a burden.

Though there was no official practice today, I had decided to train on my own, something I had fit into my schedule. I had always believed my days were too packed, but that was mostly my brain convincing me that the campus practices were already enough effort.

Passing the gated campus entrance, I continued along the path, weaving through the neatly aligned trees. The morning air filled my lungs with each step, carrying a freshness that made the world feel a little softer. After half a mile, I arrived at Aozora Park, usually empty this early, but busier later in the morning. I had found it best to come at this hour when there would be fewer people. It allowed me to adjust my new routine without distraction, and it also kept me from stopping to pet the cute dogs that wandered by, even though it was hard to resist.

The park was lush and green, with trees surrounding open areas where people could picnic or gather with friends and family. In my two years here, I had never once visited this place, despite its proximity to campus. On the track, every step carried the tension of placements and expectations, the air thick with the feeling of being measured. But in the park, none of that existed. I could let my stride loosen, my mind quiet, and just… run.

As I rounded a bend in the path, I noticed something I had begun to appreciate more recently. At the back of the park, tucked into a gentle slope and framed by scattered trees, was a small amphitheater. The stone steps curved downward in a shallow arc toward the stage, worn smooth by years of use. Delicate carvings traced the edges of each step, subtle patterns of leaves and vines catching the morning light. A narrow trail wound around the back, allowing quiet access behind the stage, where performers could prepare unseen. The stone seemed almost alive, weathered but elegant, holding a quiet dignity as if it had been waiting patiently for countless stories to unfold upon it.

I slowed slightly as I passed, taking it in while my legs continued to move. The amphitheater gave the park a sense of history, a place where even a casual morning run could brush against something enduring and alive.

My eyes caught movement at the corner of my vision as I passed the amphitheater. I didn’t stop, but I slowed my pace even more, as curiosity tugged at me.

On the stage, an individual with long golden hair was moving—no, performing. Their body shifted to convey some emotion, dramatic and exaggerated, then froze abruptly as if the feeling slipped away. A blue cap shadowed their face, concealing their features, a dark zip-up jacket wrapped them against the chill of the morning air, and light blue jeans.

What are they doing?

I let the thought pass and continued my jog, though a small twinge of concern settled in the back of my mind.Once I finished my first lap, I curved around the bend where the amphitheater opened into view, passing the small water fountain tucked beside the stone steps. I paused to take a sip, letting the cool water run down my throat, then edged closer to the gray slabs, careful not to disturb whoever was on stage.

“Why… why does it hurt when you’re gone? Why does it feel like the world ends when you’re not near me?” The voice floated across the amphitheater, fragile as a passing breeze. I stopped entirely, watching without making a sound. My brown eyes flicked to the booklet clutched in the performer’s hands.

An actor?

The line repeated, each time with slightly different movement and intonation. After each attempt, the figure shook their head, as if frustrated with themselves. Five, six times, maybe more.To my ear, each one was good enough, but I could feel the gap they were trying to close, that missing emotion they couldn’t quite grasp. I stood there, transfixed, a slow, unshakable sense of recognition creeping in, though I couldn’t explain why.

Finally, feeling I had watched enough, I began to retreat quietly. Then the strap of my jacket, looped around my umbrella snapped, then slipped and fell onto the steps. It tumbled down stone by stone until it came to rest in the middle.

I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh, shaking my head. Of course it had to happen now.

The figure on stage stiffened instantly, eyes snapping toward me. “Who’s there?” The voice was feminine, sharp, edged with fear, cutting through the quiet morning air.

I turned my body toward the stage and slowly descended the stone steps to retrieve my umbrella. “S-Sorry! I didn’t mean to bother you! My umbrella… it unfastened and fell,” I stammered, my words trailing as I tried to sound casual.

She remained on the stage, still, her posture guarded, the baseball cap shadowing her eyes so I couldn’t read them. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, wary, or just surprised. As I moved closer, she took a small step back, her body tense but silent.

“I’ll just grab this and then be on my way,” I said, forcing a nervous chuckle.

She didn’t respond immediately. I bent down, picked up the umbrella, and gave a small, polite bow as a gesture of apology. I was halfway turned around when her voice rang out again, soft but firm.

“How was it?”

I froze. My stomach flipped, and I gaped for a moment, unsure how to respond.

“I… I saw you around jogging earlier, and when you decided to watch me… you watched for a bit,” she continued, voice steady despite the cap hiding her eyes. “What did you think of my performance?”

My mind raced. It wasn’t bad, I told myself. Though the tone in her voice spoke as if she wanted to hear something more than that…something honest.. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet her tone even if I couldn’t see her expression.

“Listen, I’m no expert at this acting stuff—”

“That’s okay!” she interrupted quickly. “Anything helps! But don’t lie to me.”

I blinked several times, processing her words. She genuinely wanted the truth. I took a breath, then let my words spill out, glancing down to avoid any direct eye contact. Her cap obscured her face enough that I could hide behind it.

“It feels a little stiff,” I admitted, scratching the back of my neck. “I can tell it’s a scene that requires more emotion. Not that you aren’t putting feeling into it—it’s just… it doesn’t quite feel right. But that’s just my observation. I don’t really know the context, just… my two cents.”

I felt my cheeks heat up, wishing I could stop talking, worried my words sounded awkward or unhelpful. She didn’t seem offended, though. Instead, she was scribbling into the booklet in her hands, probably the script, muttering softly to herself as she nodded along, lost in thought.

I hesitated, not wanting to intrude further, but concern got the better of me. “Is… everything alright? I hope I didn’t overstep or anything,” I asked, unconsciously stepping a little closer, my eyes flicking away again to the ground between us.

“Oh! No, everything’s fine. Sorry, I tend to lose myself in thought whenever I get hung up on a particular line,” she said, flailing her hands a little as her attention returned to me. I could just make out her eyes beneath the shadow of the cap, but I didn’t focus on them.

“But stiff, huh. To be honest, these lines are a bit tricky for me. Something’s missing, but I don’t even know what it is. Everyone in the troupe has said the same thing. I’ve practiced and practiced, and yet… it feels like nothing’s changed.”

She sank down onto the stone stage, drawing her knees up to her chest, and let out a long, tired sigh.

Watching her, I felt a strange pull in my chest. That mix of determination and self-doubt, the same tightness, the frustration with your own body or mind, the quiet desperation to push past something you couldn’t quite grasp. I knew it all too well. During races I longed to win but couldn’t, I had felt this same restless ache. Somehow, seeing her struggle made my own feel a little less isolating.

“It’s not a bad thing, though,” I murmured, my eyes following the way she leaned against the stone. “Actors rehearse. Runners practice. It’s… kind of the same.”

I hesitated, the words settling awkwardly in my mouth. Practice. Early mornings. Sore muscles. Endless laps that blurred together. I let out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh.

“At least,” I added, “that’s what I tell myself. It’s not easy. I know that much.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked softly, something careful and open in her voice.

For a second, my chest tightened. I could have told her everything. The losses. The numbness. How running had started to feel like an obligation instead of a choice.

Instead, I looked up at the clouds gathering overhead, thick and gray, and chose my words the way I chose my pace on bad days. Slow. Measured.

“Sometimes you can do everything you’re told,” I said, “and still feel like you’re coming up short. Like there’s something missing, but no one can explain what it is.”

I glanced back at her. Even with her face hidden beneath the cap, I could feel her listening.

“But maybe it’s okay if the answer doesn’t show up all at once,” I said. “Maybe just showing up matters for a while. Even if you’re not sure it’s enough.”

The words that followed were the ones I had memorized by heart.

“...Fear is something you have to face yourself—even if your first step is small. What you want is still there. And you’re still allowed to reach for it..”

I swallowed, unsure when I’d started talking more to myself than to her.

“That’s…” she murmured.

Her reaction snapped me back into the moment. Heat rushed up the back of my neck. “S-Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I admitted. “It’s a line from a show I watched recently. It stuck kind of with me.” I laughed softly, embarrassed. “It helped pull me out of a pretty dark place.”

She smiled beneath the brim of her cap. “I’m glad it resonated with you.”

Something about the way she said it felt a little strange, but I brushed the thought aside. Clearing my throat, I added, “In the end, if it didn’t matter to you, you wouldn’t be struggling like this. So… I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

For the first time, I thought I saw a flicker in her eyes beneath the cap. I saw her lips curved into a bright, genuine smile, and she let out a soft, amused chuckle. “Thanks for sharing that with me. Honestly… I can’t remember the last time I spoke with someone like this, not even my own family,” she muttered in the last part.

There was a faint sadness in her tone that tugged at me. Actors are usually surrounded by others who understand the craft, the pressure, the obsession, but she sounded alone.

I didn’t press.

She rose gracefully, golden waves of hair shifting with her movement. Then, without warning, a single drop splashed down onto the stone, followed by another, and suddenly a deluge hammered around us as if a water balloon had burst from the sky.

“Ugh—what?!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in disgust. “How does that even happen? It wasn’t even sprinkling!”

I yanked my hoodie tighter around me, grateful for the raincoat over my body, and noticed that she had no protection, just the thin zip-up jacket with no hood. Without hesitation, I opened my umbrella quickly, and thrust it into her hands. The black shield now keeping her dry from the rain.

“Here! Take this! You can use it! I live nearby, and I’ve got a raincoat, so I’m fine,” I said, moving up the stairs before she could respond.

“B-But—” she reached out a hand.

“You can keep it!” I yelled over the downpour and disappeared up the stone steps, leaving her behind, standing in the sudden rain, umbrella in hand.

~~~

When I arrived home after the sudden downpour, I couldn’t help but think about the woman at the park in the amphitheatre. The thought of “maybe I should’ve kept her company for a little longer” scratched the back of my mind like an itch I couldn’t reach. But there was also the feeling that was gnawing at me, the way she spoke, and that golden hair…There was something familiar about her that I couldn’t put into words.

My jacket wet from the rain was hung on the backside of the door, the water dripping rhythmically as I sat at my desk cluttered with papers and notebooks, my laptop lip closed. I leaned against the back of the chair and looked up at the ceiling. I felt my expression tighten, my lips were pressed and my eyebrows knitted.

“This is going to bother me,” I let out a long sigh.

~~~

Morning practice on campus felt the same as always, though I’d arrived earlier than everyone else just to stay warm. One by one, people began to trickle onto the track: sprinters gathering by the starting blocks, distance runners settling into their warm-up laps, hurdlers adjusting their step patterns, jumpers stretching by the sand pits. Even the throwers were already out by the ring.

“Well, you’re early. That’s pretty rare,” Benio said as she appeared beside me, her voice light with surprise.

“Just wanted a change of pace,” I replied with a small grin.

I glanced toward the throwing ring where Tatsumi and the rest of their crew were already loosening up.

“You wanna practice with us?” Benio teased.

“Like hell I would.” I laughed and gave her shoulder a playful tap. She snorted and jogged back to her group.

Practice continued like any other day. By the time we wrapped up, I wasn’t exhausted, but I’d definitely worked up a sweat. With my first class still an hour away, I gathered my things and started toward the Sports Medicine building, planning to roll out and relax before heading off.

I was halfway there when I saw Chiaki barreling toward me, her expression frantic as she closed the distance.

“Come with me!” she grabbed my hand and forcibly pulled me along as I was now headed away from my original destination.

“Wah–Chiaki? What’s going on?!”

“Notimetoexplain!” Her words tumbled out in such a rush that I simply surrendered to whatever was happening.

We flew past the campus library. Up ahead, other students were streaming toward what looked like the auditorium. Our pace slowed as we hit a wall of bodies, everyone congregating for something.

Before I could even get a word out, a familiar voice gasped beside me, breathless and ragged from a sprint. "Tatsumi," she panted between gulps of air, "lift me up!"

“Aye aye!”

To my right, Benio rose high above the sea of people crowding the area, hoisted up by Tatsumi. She cupped her hands around her eyes like binoculars, then shrieked, "There she is! She's actually here!" Her voice climbed several octaves with pure excitement.

I could barely make out who "she" was through the crush of bodies pressing against each other.

"Who?" I squinted, trying to peer over the crowd.

“Koba Natsuki!”