"If I were to ask you what love was, how would you answer me?"
"I've tried for a long time to figure it out myself, and for so long, my only answer was this: love is a word people use to excuse the pain of loneliness they can't face alone.
I've seen it fail too many times to trust it anymore. A fleeting feeling that simply drives the human race to procreate.
But maybe I was just so used to the love I was given that I couldn't see what real love was."
"I hate you!" The voice exploded from inside the rundown house. His mother's words still echoed, sharp and accusing.
Ren slammed his bedroom door. His mother was still yelling. "Do you think your father's illness is a joke?! You do nothing but drag this family down!"
He gritted his teeth, fist trembling. Drag this family down? He'd been trying to keep everything together the words burned, but they didn't come out; he'd long since grown used to it.
He stormed past his parents' room. His father sprawled across the bed, pale and still, coughing quietly, unaware of the argument. Wired to machines keeping him alive, the smell of antiseptic and medicine thickened the air.
Ren's chest tightened. "Why does she always make it my fault?"
"You're worthless, Ren! Do you even care about this family?!" His mother screamed again. The sound cracked something inside him as he moved down the hallway.
The front door slammed behind him, echoing down the empty street. He walked without thought, feet carrying him on autopilot. The air was thick, heavy with tension and the faint scent of wet concrete from the recent drizzle.
For a while, he just walked. City noises hummed in the background: distant cars, the faint buzz of streetlights, a dog barking somewhere down an alley. Thoughts swirled, half-formed, bitter and heavy.
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the bottle he'd been carrying. He toyed with it, but didn't open it yet. The sky darkened, clouds gathering overhead. A few drops began to fall, light at first, barely noticeable. Ren lifted his head, watching them hit the pavement. He sighed, shoulders slumping.
The rain began to pick up, soft at first, then heavier. He let it soak his hair and clothes, cool drops running down his face. For a moment, he almost forgot the fight, almost forgot the tight knot in his chest — replaced with a dull numbness that only the rain seemed to amplify.
The bottle slipped from his pocket as he adjusted his hoodie, rolling across the wet street.
"Huhhh." He sighed and chased after it. It stopped spinning aimlessly in a puddle, wobbling slightly in the water. Ren bent down, hands trembling, and picked it up.
As he stood, he noticed movement up ahead: a girl crouched on the sidewalk, picking up torn and wet pages from a sketchbook.
Her hands shook, rain dripping down her face, and she sobbed quietly. She was completely absorbed in her own struggle, unaware of him standing there.
Ren froze, a strange tug in his chest — a mix of curiosity, recognition, and… something unfamiliar. He wanted to look away, to keep walking, to retreat back into his solitude. But the sight of her, fragile yet raw, kept his feet rooted to the pavement.
Ren's fingers curled around the bottle in his pocket, but he didn't lift it to his lips. Ahead, the girl gathered the scattered pages from her sketchbook. Torn, soggy, fluttering in the wind — the chaos mirrored his own life.
Then, their eyes met.
He recognized her immediately — Nala, the girl from his school. She sat in the front of the class, always seeming untouchable, perfect in her polished world. And yet, here she was, broken, crying quietly in the rain.
For a moment, neither moved. Words failed both of them.
She noticed the small bottle clutched in his hand — a glimpse of the quiet self-destruction he tried to hide so well. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing between them. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Ren noticed her tears streaking down her face, the soaked pages scattered at her feet. Something in her posture, the vulnerability she couldn't hide, pierced him.
In that silent moment, they saw each other clearly: two broken souls, caught in different worlds, yet sharing the same quiet despair.
The rain fell heavier now, soaking their clothes, masking their presence from anyone else on the street. Neither moved closer, neither spoke. They simply acknowledged each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them — a recognition of shared sadness and, perhaps, for the first time in a long while, connection.
After a few long seconds, Ren adjusted his hoodie, tucked the bottle fully into his pocket, and kept walking. Nala gathered the last of her scattered pages, hugging her sketchbook to her chest. They passed each other silently, two lives briefly intersecting in the rain, leaving an impression neither would forget.
Hours later, Ren strolled back down the street on his way home. He walked slowly, hoping she was still outside, but as he passed her home, she was nowhere to be found.
Looking onto the ground, he saw a lone piece of paper halfway in the sewer. He reached down, picking it up. It was a drawing, soggy but still legible. There were figures — shadows sprawling in all directions, and just behind them, a child kneeling in a puddle of tears.
Ren immediately understood what the picture meant. He folded the page, placed it into his pocket, and walked back home.