The rain stopped the next morning.
Not suddenly. It faded.
Like it had cried all night, poured its heart out, and when there was nothing left to say, it simply… stopped.
No grand finale.
No thunder.
Just silence.
The air was damp, the streets still glistening. The wind carried the ghost of last night's storm—light and tired, like a lullaby finally finished. Clouds still drifted lazily above the city, but in between them, a sliver of sky emerged: soft, hesitant blue, like someone shy peeking through a doorway.
By the time Saanvi reached the school gates, that blue had stretched wider, bathing the rooftop in a gentle glow. Almost like a promise.
But promises were tricky things.
They could look like hope and still feel like weight.
Her bag hung heavy on her shoulder, but not as heavy as her chest. The ache there wasn't sharp—it had dulled into something persistent. Something silent. Something that followed her like a shadow, even as the sun returned.
The whispers hadn't stopped.
They'd evolved.
Matured. Mutated.
What were once hushed voices behind lockers had turned into looks. Lingering stares between giggles. Phones tilted just enough to hide the messages but not the smirks.
Folders raised like walls, but not thick enough to block the tension.
Laughter, not loud—but sharp.
Like paper cuts.
She kept her head down.
Eyes forward.
Steps quiet.
She didn't look for Jisoo.
Not in the classroom.
Not in the hallways.
Not even in the reflection of windows.
Because wanting to see him felt like selfishness now.
And hurting someone you care about—that was a kind of guilt that settled in the bones.
---
Lunch arrived like a sigh.
The cafeteria buzzed. Chopsticks clattered. Soda cans hissed open. Conversations bounced off walls, but none of them reached her.
She didn't eat under the staircase this time.
She couldn't tell if that was courage… or just exhaustion.
She sat at her desk in silence, poking at her rice like it had wronged her. Every grain a thought she didn't want to have.
The seat beside her stayed empty.
That, somehow, hurt worse than the whispers.
She hadn't realized how much space Jisoo took up—not just in the classroom, but in her thoughts. In her quiet. In the way she used to listen for the sound of wheels echoing down the hallway, or how she'd glance sideways during roll call, waiting for him to appear late, hoodie half-on, eyes half-awake.
And now?
Now, she waited for the day to end.
Not to go home.
Just to be done.
Then—
Click.
The chair beside her slid out.
Not loudly. But enough to break her spiral.
She looked up.
Not Jisoo.
Yerin.
Hair pulled back today. Shoelaces untied like always. That same look on her face—half-smirk, half-concern.
Casual, but softer than usual.
"Hey," Yerin said, as if this were any other lunch.
As if the past week hadn't rearranged everything.
Saanvi blinked. "…Hi."
Yerin gave her tray a quick glance. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Then she stabbed a sausage with a toothpick.
"Also," she added, chewing, "I'm mad at you."
Saanvi turned her head, eyes wide. "Huh?"
"You disappeared. From our rooftop. From the library. From Jisoo."
Another bite. "That's not very main-character of you."
Saanvi almost laughed.
Almost.
It sat there, right at the edge of her mouth—but it didn't come out. She just stared down at her tray, then whispered, "I didn't want to cause trouble."
Yerin stopped chewing.
Then leaned forward.
"You didn't," she said. "The trouble was already there. You just made it visible."
"…Still."
There was a pause.
A quiet where maybe an apology could've lived—but neither of them wanted it to.
Then Yerin nudged her lightly with her elbow.
"You and Jisoo… what are you two, exactly?"
The question wasn't sharp.
It was honest.
Curious.
Like someone genuinely flipping through the pages of a book and wondering if it ends happily.
Saanvi looked up at the ceiling light.
Then outside. The clouds were still there—but thin now. The sun painted soft outlines around their edges. Almost gold. Almost gentle.
"I don't know," she said. "We're not… anything official."
Yerin leaned back, arms behind her head, as if the desk were suddenly a therapist's couch.
"Then let me guess," she said, grinning.
She raised one finger.
"One: Two people who keep running into each other in the wrong place at the wrong time."
A second.
"Two: Two people who remember something that never fully happened."
A third.
"Three: Two people who might've been meant for each other… if not for the storm."
Saanvi blinked. "What storm?"
Yerin smirked.
"Whatever storm keeps messing up the story."
---
That evening, Saanvi climbed the stairs.
Each step echoed a little too loud in the empty corridor. She didn't know why her feet carried her here. She had no expectations. Maybe she wanted closure. Maybe she wanted wind.
Maybe… she wanted to feel something besides confusion.
The rooftop door creaked open.
The breeze greeted her like an old friend—familiar and forgiving. The concrete still held a faint shimmer from the night's rain. The railings were cold to the touch. The sky had softened into a watercolor of pastels: lavender clouds, golden horizon, the kind of sky that felt like it was trying to apologize for earlier.
She almost expected it to be empty.
But it wasn't.
Jisoo was there.
Leaning against the railing.
Hoodie sleeves pushed up.
Hair slightly messy like he hadn't run his hands through it yet.
He didn't turn around when she stepped closer.
But his voice cut through the silence.
"Do you remember what you said… that first time we met here?"
Saanvi paused.
"Which part?" she asked softly.
He turned to her now. Eyes calm. A little tired. But not cold.
"You said it felt like… a postcard," he said.
Then added, "And poetry."
She smiled. Not broadly—just enough to let the memory land.
"It still does," she whispered.
They stood there for a long moment.
Not speaking.
Not needing to.
Just watching the city breathe.
The clouds drifted. The wind rustled Jisoo's sleeve. Far below, cars passed like tiny moments in motion. Nothing dramatic. Nothing urgent.
Just stillness.
Then he asked, "If we meet again… I mean, really meet—without all this noise—do you think we'd still feel like this?"
She didn't look at him.
She looked at the sky.
At that soft, stubborn patch of blue trying to grow.
And said, "Yes. Even if it's not now. Even if it takes years. I think… we'd still feel like this."
Jisoo didn't say anything back.
He didn't need to.
Because sometimes, the wind carries answers between people who don't know how to ask.
And sometimes… the right silence is louder than any confession.
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