It was a strange kind of night—starry, but rainy. The kind of contradiction that made the world feel like it couldn't make up its mind. The sky was clear enough to see constellations if you tilted your head just right, but the rain fell anyway, light and steady, tapping against the window like it was trying to whisper something important and forgetting the words halfway through.
I liked nights like this. Quiet. Moody. Predictably unpredictable.
My name's Ren. Just your average high school student with above-average grades, below-average social skills, and a perfectly curated life where I do the bare minimum required to be considered "functioning."
Currently, I was enjoying the rare bliss of solitude. My parents had left for the week—something about real estate paperwork and visiting relatives. I didn't ask for details. They didn't offer much. The important thing was: I had the house to myself. No one asking me to "step outside more" or "say hi to the neighbors." Just me, the couch, an oversized hoodie, and a sad leftover slice of pizza that I had no intention of heating up.
It was perfect.
Well… almost.
As I leaned back and half-watched a cooking show where the host was either on the verge of a mental breakdown or just really passionate about risotto, my eyes drifted—as they often did—to the window across from mine.
Her window.
Hazuki Sato.
We've been neighbors since forever. We go to the same high school. Our parents are close. Like, "Friday night dinners and birthday gifts even though we stopped doing that for other people years ago" close. You'd think with all that, we'd be close too.
We're not.
We've never had a proper conversation. Not a real one. Not unless you count the times we've awkwardly passed the soy sauce to each other at dinner. Or exchanged polite nods in the hallway. Or muttered "thanks" when one held the door open for the other at school.
She exists in my life like background music. Always there. Familiar. But never loud enough to become a part of the melody.
And maybe that's what I liked about her. About us—if you could even call it that. We were like two planets orbiting the same star but never colliding. Quiet. Predictable. Safe.
She was… not like me, though.
At school, Hazuki was a walking contradiction. Not loud, not exactly outgoing, but magnetic in a way that made people pay attention. She was the kind of person you didn't notice right away, but once you did, it was impossible not to keep noticing.
She had a calm, observant air about her—like she was always a step ahead, quietly absorbing everything and filing it away for later. She got good grades, helped run the library club, and was the type of student teachers trusted with keys. You know the type.
Meanwhile, I was... something else entirely.
People say I'm popular, which is a weird word. At our school, that just means people know your name, not that they actually know you. I play sports—mostly soccer—and I guess I don't look like a complete goblin, so I get attention. But I keep to myself. Always have. I hang out with the same three people. I don't go to parties. I don't raise my hand in class unless I absolutely have to.
And I don't talk to people unless they talk to me first. Which, apparently, makes me "mysterious" or "intimidating," depending on which rumor mill you're tuned into that day.
Some people think I'm stuck-up. Others think I'm shy. I've heard "emo" more times than I can count, which is impressive considering I don't even own eyeliner. The worst part? I don't correct them. I let them think what they want. It's easier than explaining that I'm just... tired. All the time. Of people, of pretending, of trying.
And then there's the walk.
Hazuki and I live on the same street. We leave school around the same time. So, naturally, we end up taking the same route home.
Unfortunately, it often looks like I'm following her.
Which... okay, technically, I am.
But not in a creepy way. It's just the most efficient route, and she happens to walk at the exact speed that makes it weird to either overtake her or fall too far behind.
She knows that. I think. We have this unspoken understanding: "I see you. You see me. Let's pretend this is normal."
The problem is, bystanders don't get the memo.
I've caught people giving me looks. Whispering. Once, I overheard someone mutter, "There goes Sato's stalker again," and I almost dropped my earphones.
It doesn't help that I don't smile much. Or talk. Or do anything that screams not a creep, promise! So yeah, I get it. I look suspicious. Like I'm plotting a murder or writing poetry about her hair or something.
Spoiler: I'm just trying to get home without tripping over my own shoelaces.
Sometimes, Hazuki glances over her shoulder, just briefly. Not in fear or annoyance—more like confirmation. Like she's saying, "Still there?" and I'm silently replying, "Yeah, sorry. Again."
We never laugh about it. Never talk about it at all. But we both know.
And I was fine with that. With the silence. With the distance.
Until tonight.
Knock knock knock.
A sound that didn't belong shattered the rhythm of the rain.
I sat up. Paused the TV. My house was supposed to be visitor-free. That was the deal. Who knocks on someone's door during a rainy night anyway? What is this, a horror movie?
My first thought was: my parents came back early. Maybe they forgot something. Maybe I was in trouble for not answering my phone, which, okay, I might have put on Do Not Disturb for the past five hours.
Second thought: maybe it was a package. A really persistent delivery guy.
Third thought: ghosts.
I crept toward the door, trying not to make a sound for some reason, as if whoever—or whatever—was out there would leave if I just stayed still long enough.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
I peeked through the peephole.
And froze.
It was her.
Hazuki.
Standing on my porch.
Wearing a hoodie three sizes too big, soaked through from the rain, water clinging to her hair in dark strands. She was holding something—no, someone.
A cat.
A very wet, very unimpressed-looking cat.
What.
I opened the door before my brain could catch up.
She looked up at me, blinking rain out of her lashes.
"Hey," she said, voice casual, like this was a normal thing to do. Like she just happened to stop by at night, in the rain, with a cat, because that's what neighbors do now.
The cat meowed, like it was seconding her greeting.
I stared at her.
My brain scrambled for a response and came up with: "…Hey."
Silence.
Rain.
The cat sneezed.
And just like that, my quiet life came to an abrupt, soggy end.