It was the same park and space I’ve been selling mitarashi dango for almost three years. My so-called home, after my parents abandoned me long ago.

And for eight months now, every after classes, every bright afternoon, a girl with golden hair sits on the same bench across from me, always sketching, seemingly always stuck in the same routine as me. She was my classmate, Kousaka Akari—and I can call her the epitome of a rigid existence. Cold and brash, beautiful in the way that draws stares, yet sharp enough to drive everyone away.

Until one rainy day, I was forced to cross the invisible line between us and I offered her my umbrella—and I expected nothing in return.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, but neither would I expect for our lives to shift. How do I even name these feelings that started to bloom?