The first week without Ren felt… suspended.
Not gone.
Not still.
Just… in between.
Airi floated through her days like a ghost of herself—present but distant. Her smile turned into a reflex. Her answers were short, her laugh quieter.
Yui didn't pry. She didn't need to. She saw it in the way Airi stopped doodling in the margins of her notes and started walking slower between classes—as if time might give her a second chance if she moved carefully enough.
One afternoon, Airi found herself back at the old bookstore—the one Ren had dragged her into on a rainy Tuesday months ago.
The air still smelled like dust and forgotten paper.
She didn't plan to go inside.
But she did.
Almost against her will.
The shopkeeper, Mr. Mori, peered at her over his half-moon glasses. "You came back alone this time."
"I guess I did."
"He used to check the poetry shelf first," Mr. Mori said quietly.
"I know."
"You ever wonder why people like him buy poetry?"
Airi shrugged.
"Because they're looking for someone to say what they can't."
She walked to the poetry shelf out of habit.
Found a slim volume tucked behind others. The spine cracked when she opened it.
There was a note tucked between the pages.
A sketch.
Ren's handwriting, dated weeks ago:
"If you find this, it means you're still looking.
That matters more than I ever said aloud."
She pressed the paper to her chest and closed her eyes.
And this time, when she smiled, it wasn't just memory. It was promise.
That night, Yui stormed into her room mid-study session and plopped down dramatically.
"You," she said. "Need to come with me."
Airi raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
"To an open mic night."
"I—what?"
"It's hosted at this tiny rooftop café. You don't even have to perform. Just sit. Breathe something that isn't grief."
Airi opened her mouth to protest, but Yui held up a hand.
"I'm not asking."
The café pulsed with soft jazz and murmured conversation. Warm lights looped across the ceiling like constellations too intimate for the sky.
Airi took a seat near the edge, heart thudding from nerves that had nothing to do with the mic.
A boy with glasses read haikus about his goldfish.
A girl recited spoken-word verses like they were curses she was finally breaking.
The night wrapped itself around Airi gently, like a blanket she didn't know she needed.
Then, a familiar voice floated across the rooftop:
"May I read one?"
Her breath caught.
She turned slowly.
Ren.
Damp hair. Grey hoodie. Sketchbook under one arm.
Yui leaned in, whispering with wide eyes, "He literally just showed up five minutes ago. I thought you were going to pass out."
Ren stood at the mic.
He looked nervous. Not charmingly unsure—actually trembling.
He opened his sketchbook and read:
"There are three types of silence.
The kind that fills a room after a fight.The kind that tastes like goodbye.And the kind that begs you to stay.
I've lived in all of them.
And somehow, every one sounded like your name."
(pause)
"This is me asking to come home.
If that home still has room for someone who doesn't always know how to stay."
The room was silent for a beat.
Then came soft applause, almost reverent.
Airi's heart was in her throat.
Ren stepped down. Their eyes met.
He approached slowly, not smiling—waiting.
"I thought I ruined it," he said quietly.
"You did," Airi replied.
He flinched.
"But it doesn't mean you can't fix it."
She stepped closer, her voice a whisper meant only for him.
"You left. But this time, you said something before walking away."
He handed her a folded paper.
Not a sketch.
A letter.
She opened it as he stood there, heart exposed.
"I don't want to be the rain that disappears.
I want to be the space between footsteps—The pause where you catch your breath,Where everything feels still, but safe.
I don't need to be your everything.I just want to be the place your thoughts goWhen it's too quiet to pretend."
Airi looked up, eyes wet but not broken.
"You still talk in metaphors, you know that?"
He smiled faintly. "That's how I survive."
She stepped closer until they were toe-to-toe.
And then, softly:
"I don't need someone who disappears and returns with poetry. I need someone who stays through the silence."
"I'm trying."
"Then try with me."
He took her hand.
Their fingers threaded together like pages in a story unfinished.
It wasn't a kiss. Not yet.
But it was the promise of one.
Just as the café lights flickered and the host announced last call, a crash of thunder rolled above the city.
Rain began to fall again.
But this time, they didn't run from it.