The next morning, the rain was gone, but the sky remained overcast—like a sheet waiting to be painted. Airi Minase adjusted her ribbon in the mirror and stared at her reflection for a long moment.
She looked the same. Same dark eyes. Same black hair pulled behind her ear with a single clip. But something inside her felt different. Lighter? No. Maybe... unsettled.
She hadn't been able to stop thinking about yesterday.
About the umbrella.
About him.
The school hallway bustled with noise again. But today, she walked with more purpose. She didn't flinch at the slamming lockers or shuffle her feet like before. She still didn't speak much, but she noticed more.
A boy adjusting his tie while hiding a yawn.
A girl giggling as she pulled on her friend's sleeve.
Small things. Quiet moments. Raindrop-sized details in a larger storm.
When she reached the classroom, Rina was already waving at her.
"Airi-chan! Come here, come here! We have free period this morning!"
Airi walked over. Rina had pulled two desks together and already had snacks out.
"Want one?" she asked, holding up a bag of honey butter chips.
Airi took one and nodded. "Thanks."
Before Rina could launch into her next topic, a figure slid into the seat behind them. Airi didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Takahashi," Rina said, grinning. "Overslept again?"
He yawned in reply.
His voice drifted lazily. "What time is it?"
"Still first period," Rina replied. "We're free till math starts."
Airi felt him lean forward slightly. Not enough to touch her, but close enough that she felt it.
"Good morning," he said, soft and casual.
She turned her head just slightly. "Morning."
Their eyes met—brief, unspoken.
He smiled, then pulled out his sketchbook and began to draw.
Ten minutes passed in silence. Airi watched Rina scroll through her phone while humming, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ren's pencil moving, steady and fluid.
She tilted her head. "What are you drawing?"
He didn't stop. "You want to see?"
She blinked. "No, I mean—I didn't mean me."
He laughed softly. "Too late."
Airi hesitated, then peeked.
It wasn't a portrait. Not exactly.
On the page was a sketch of the classroom—loose lines, some unfinished. Desks, windows, the board. But her seat was more defined. The folds in her blazer. The curve of her shoulder. The clip in her hair.
She stared for a long time.
"It's not finished," he said, closing the book.
She looked away, suddenly conscious of how still she was sitting. "You really draw every day?"
He nodded. "It's the only thing I'm consistent at."
Rina leaned forward between them, grinning. "He's always drawing stuff. Never shows anyone though."
"Because most people don't ask nicely," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
Airi felt her cheeks warm.
Later that afternoon, during math class, she found herself glancing toward Ren more often than she meant to.
He wasn't paying attention. His chin rested in his hand, and he was staring out the window at the clouds.
His notebook was open, but the page was blank.
Airi looked down at her own notes, suddenly unsure if she had written anything at all.
By the time school ended, the clouds had darkened again.
Rina waved goodbye from the school gate, promising to message her later. Airi nodded and adjusted the strap of her bag. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, she heard footsteps behind her.
"You're walking?"
She turned. Ren had his hands in his pockets, one headphone in. His bag hung carelessly from one shoulder.
"Yeah," she said.
"You live near the riverbank?"
She paused. "Sort of."
He nodded as if confirming something. "Then I'll walk too."
They fell into step, not too close, not too far.
The world around them was quiet—only the occasional car, the murmur of distant voices, the whisper of wind against trees. The kind of silence that made small things louder.
Airi finally asked, "Why did you draw me?"
Ren looked over at her, a little surprised she asked.
"You were still," he said.
"That's it?"
He smiled. "Still people are easier to draw."
She raised an eyebrow.
"And," he added, glancing up at the clouds, "you looked like part of the rain."
She stopped.
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged, slowing his steps. "I don't know. You just... matched it. Like someone who belongs in drizzle."
It wasn't meant as a compliment. Or maybe it was.
She didn't know how to respond.
So she kept walking.
When they reached the bridge near the river, they paused. The water below reflected the dim sky in murky ripples. A light drizzle had started again, dusting the concrete with tiny, scattered dots.
Ren opened his umbrella. It was the same blue one as yesterday.
He tilted it toward her.
"You keep forgetting yours."
"I didn't forget," she said. "Just didn't think I'd need it today."
"You always need it," he said, without teasing.
They walked under the shared umbrella for another minute.
When they reached the turn where their paths split, Ren didn't say goodbye. He just handed her the umbrella.
"Keep it," he said. "I have another."
Airi stared at it.
"But—"
"I'll trade you," he said. "Next time, bring me a drawing."
"I can't draw."
"Exactly," he said, smiling. "That makes it fair."
When she got home, she stood in the entryway, holding the umbrella in both hands.
She opened it slowly.
The inside was lined with small doodles in black ink. Raindrops. Shoes. A cat. A girl looking up at the sky.
She wasn't sure if it was her.
But she closed it gently and leaned it beside the door.
She didn't tell her grandmother about the boy.
She didn't know how to describe him.
Or maybe she just didn't want to share the feeling.
That night, the rain came again.
Not hard. Not loud.
Just steady.
Just enough to fill the silence between the walls.
And somewhere inside that sound, Airi thought of him.
Of the boy who said she looked like part of the rain.