"Some silences speak louder when the rain is near — soft, persistent, and impossible to ignore."
It rained again.
Not a surprise. Thursdays had started to come with their own scent — wet concrete, ink bleeding through notebooks, and the gentle steam from vending machines tucked under awnings.
Kazuki didn't mind it. He liked how the sky seemed to match the inside of his head — overcast, but not storming.
He walked slower than usual today, hood up again, hands in his pockets. There was no reason to rush. The rain wasn't going anywhere.
Neither was she.
He didn't even pretend to take a different route this time. Shinonome Street. Bus stop. Same as last week.
She was already there.
Sitting in the same spot. Book open again — different one, this time with a pale blue cover. He wondered if she finished books in a week. Or if she just liked holding them.
Her umbrella was open and hooked over the back of the bench this time, shielding her legs from the sideways rain.
Kazuki stood there for a moment, letting the rain soak into his shoulders before ducking under the roof. He sat again — same spot. One meter apart. It was becoming their default distance. Close enough to share a moment, far enough to preserve the silence.
The rain had grown heavier. A soft, rhythmic drumming on the roof, like the world humming a lullaby it couldn't remember the lyrics to.
Kazuki tapped the side of his leg. Then stood up.
She didn't react. Just kept reading.
He walked to the vending machine about ten steps behind the stop — one of those old ones with chipped paint and a buzzing hum that sounded like it was sighing all the time. He stared at the lineup of drinks.
Coffee. Green tea. Lemon soda. Canned corn soup — weirdly popular in the winter.
He picked the same warm milk tea he always drank. Then, after a beat, he fished out another 150 yen. Pressed the same button. Another can thumped into the tray.
He didn't know why. He just didn't want her to look cold.
He walked back slowly. The rain had picked up, soaking his hair, dripping into his collar. His shoes squelched a little with each step.
She glanced up this time. Only for a second. But she looked.
He placed the warm can of milk tea on the bench beside her, without a word. The metal made a soft clink against the wood.
She stared at it. Then at him.
Her eyes were sharp. Not in a cold way — just observant. Like she was trying to see through the gesture to the reason beneath it.
Kazuki looked away and sat back down. Same spot. One meter. He didn't expect anything.
The rain filled the space between them again.
She closed her book — not all the way, just to hold her page with a finger. Then she picked up the can. Turned it once in her hands. Looked at it like it was an alien gift.
Then —
"Thank you."
Her voice was quieter than he imagined it would be. Like a rain-soaked whisper that almost got lost in the wind.
He looked at her again. She wasn't smiling. But she wasn't frowning either. Just… existing. Fully.
"You're welcome," he said.
The silence after that was different. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full of something unnamed.
She opened the can. Steam rose gently into the cold air.
They drank.
They listened.
The bus came early. Maybe the driver didn't feel like waiting in the rain.
They stood at the same time.
This time, as she stepped onto the bus, she turned back slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just a slight turn of the shoulder. Enough that he noticed.
He sat behind her again. Two rows back. The rain smeared the world into watercolor, just like last week.
But this time, Kazuki wrote a single word in the fog of the window:
Ame.
Rain. Or... her name?
He remembered seeing it on the attendance list a few times — Amemiya. Ame. The kanji for "rain." Maybe coincidence. Maybe not.
When she got off the bus, he didn't look away this time. He watched her go.
And when he got home, he didn't dry his hair right away. He opened his notebook and wrote something on the last page:
"We didn't plan the rain.
We just showed up in it.
And somehow, that was enough."