The next morning, Airi sat by the window, Ren's letter folded in her pocket like a weight.
She hadn't slept.
Each time she closed her eyes, she saw his face—half-shadowed by drizzle, the way his voice trembled when he said, "I believe in you."
She didn't go to school right away.
Instead, she took the long route—past the park where they first talked, past the bridge with the rusted railing where he once sketched water lilies from memory.
Every place now carried echoes.
At school, Ren wasn't in class.
Nor the art room.
Nor the courtyard.
His desk sat empty, his chair still tucked in like he'd never existed.
Yui noticed immediately. "Okay, where's your brooding artist?"
Airi avoided her gaze. "He… left something behind yesterday."
Yui blinked. "What kind of 'something'?"
"A letter."
Yui leaned in. "And?"
"He's leaving. Two weeks. Maybe less."
"Wait. What—he's just going?"
Airi nodded.
"And you're just… sitting here?"
"What do you want me to do?" she snapped, more to herself than Yui.
"I want you to do what any girl in a love story would do. Run."
After school, Airi found herself at the station.
She didn't remember walking there.
The platform buzzed with movement, people brushing past her like ghosts in tailored coats and tired eyes.
She clutched her phone, thumb hovering over Ren's number.
But she didn't call.
Instead, she pulled out the sketch he left inside the umbrella.
"You don't have to walk alone anymore."
She stared at that line until the ink blurred from the mist in the air—or maybe her own eyes.
Back home, her father was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables.
He glanced at her. "You're home late."
She hesitated.
Then, softly: "Do you think people ever regret staying silent?"
He stopped chopping. "All the time."
Airi sat at the table.
"He's leaving," she said. "Ren. In less than two weeks."
Her father looked at her, really looked, for the first time in days.
"And you're not going to stop him?"
"I don't know if I can."
"You can," he said. "You just have to decide if you want to."
The next day, the school buzzed with festival prep.
Booths were half-built, paint spilled, someone was arguing over extension cords near the gym.
But Airi wasn't listening.
She was staring at her phone again.
No messages.
She wandered to the art room.
Ren's supplies were gone.
His corner—usually scattered with sketchbooks and charcoal dust—was clean.
Too clean.
She stood in the doorway for a long moment.
And then she sat down and opened her own notebook.
Not to write. Not to draw.
Just to remember.
Later that day, a quiet knock sounded at the literature club room.
She looked up—and nearly dropped her pen.
Ren stood in the doorway, soaked again, as usual.
But this time, his bag was missing.
His shoulders looked heavier.
"You weren't in class," she said.
"Neither were you," he replied.
She stood slowly. "What are you doing here?"
He stepped in. "My flight's Saturday."
Airi swallowed. "That's three days from now."
"I know."
They stood inches apart.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she asked.
"I was scared," he said. "That if I said it out loud, it would be real."
Airi's voice dropped. "It is real."
"I know," he whispered. "But I had to see you again before I go."
She reached into her pocket and handed him something.
It was her own letter.
He opened it, unfolded it slowly.
Inside: a single sentence.
"I was never afraid of being alone until you gave me something to lose."
He looked up, eyes wide.
And then he did something she didn't expect.
He hugged her.
Not a fleeting, nervous hug.
But one that held everything he hadn't said.
Airi clung back, like she could hold him there just a little longer.
When they pulled apart, he smiled.
Softly. Sadly.
"I'm going to finish the last page," he said.
She frowned. "The sketchbook?"
He nodded. "The one I gave you. I want to draw what comes after."
"What's after?" she asked.
He looked at her like she was the answer.
"You."