The city was weeping.
Raindrops slid down the glass window of a small convenience store in Cubao, rhythmically tapping like a lullaby on repeat. Outside, cars passed in a blur of headlights, pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, and the dull hum of city life continued even under gray skies. But inside the store, time seemed to slow down.
Eli Navarro sat by the window, his sketchpad balanced on his knees, pencil in hand. His oversized hoodie was damp from the storm, the sleeves slightly frayed, and his dark hair clung to his forehead. He was used to this kind of quiet, the kind that filled the spaces between his heartbeats. He loved observing people, capturing their expressions in quick strokes—strangers became subjects, and moments became memories.
He had nowhere to be. No one waiting for him. Just the sound of rain and the whisper of graphite on paper.
That was enough. At least, for now.
He didn't even notice the door swing open until the chime echoed across the store.
A gust of wind followed, carrying with it the scent of wet pavement and cologne. Eli glanced up.
A tall figure entered, shaking water from his jacket. His eyes were sharp, lips curled in an amused smirk as he looked around. He wasn't the kind of guy who went unnoticed—he looked like someone who belonged somewhere important. Confident. Loud. Sure of himself.
Eli's pencil paused mid-stroke.
"Damn, it's coming down hard," the newcomer muttered, walking past the shelves and toward the fridge to grab a bottle of water. He caught sight of Eli as he passed, his steps slowing for just a moment. Their eyes met.
"Rough night?" the stranger asked casually, his voice low but warm.
Eli blinked. He wasn't used to being spoken to first—especially by guys like him. "Yeah. I guess," he replied softly.
"You stranded too?"
Eli nodded. "Protest blocked the jeep route. I was walking when the rain started."
The guy chuckled. "Same. It's chaos out there."
He walked over and dropped his things onto the table opposite Eli without asking for permission. He slid into the seat, leaned back like he owned the place. "Name's Riven."
Eli hesitated, eyeing him like he wasn't sure if this was real. "Eli."
"Eli," Riven repeated with a small nod, like he was testing the way it sounded on his tongue. "You always draw during storms?"
"Only when I'm alone," Eli said without thinking, then looked away, embarrassed.
Riven smiled, tilting his head. "So I'm ruining your vibe, huh?"
"No, it's… It's fine," Eli murmured.
There was a silence between them—but not an uncomfortable one. Riven watched as Eli returned to his sketching, the lines taking form quickly, confidently. It fascinated him. Most people needed conversation to feel connected, but this boy—this soft, guarded artist—said more in the way he moved a pencil than in actual words.
"What are you drawing?" Riven leaned forward.
"A couple from earlier. They were holding hands even though they were fighting."
Riven raised a brow. "Romantic."
"Real," Eli said. "People think love is about perfection. But it's not. It's… showing up. Even when it's messy."
Riven didn't expect that kind of answer. Not from someone who looked so quiet, so soft. He was intrigued.
"Draw me."
Eli looked up. "What?"
"Draw me. I want to see how I look through your eyes."
Eli stared at him, unsure whether he was joking. But Riven wasn't smiling. He was serious—curious, even.
So Eli nodded. Slowly, nervously. He flipped to a new page.
Riven leaned on the table, chin resting on his hand. "What do I do?"
"Nothing," Eli said. "Just… be."
For the next ten minutes, neither of them spoke.
The rain outside grew heavier, but the silence inside was steady, comforting. Riven watched the boy across from him as his eyes flicked from page to subject, his hand moving with quiet precision. Every few seconds, Eli would pause, look at him, and then return to sketching like he was afraid the moment would disappear.
When he finally finished, he hesitated before turning the pad toward Riven.
Riven stared.
The sketch wasn't perfect. It was raw. Messy in some places, detailed in others. But there was emotion in it. Life. His eyes looked softer in the drawing, his smile a little sadder. Like Eli had seen something he hadn't even known he was hiding.
"…Is that really how you see me?" Riven asked quietly.
Eli shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just a drawing."
"No. It's not."
Riven looked at him—really looked—and for a second, the world outside vanished. The traffic. The rain. The deadlines. The noise.
All that existed was the quiet between them.
Then Riven's phone buzzed. A text. A reminder. Reality creeping back in.
He sighed, standing up. "My driver's here. I should go."
Eli nodded, trying not to let disappointment show.
Riven looked down at him, hesitated, then tore a page from his notebook and scribbled something. He handed it to Eli before leaving.
"Text me sometime. If you ever want to draw again… or just talk."
And just like that, he was gone.
Eli stared at the paper in his hand.
A number. A name.
Riven.
The door closed with a soft chime behind him.
The rain kept falling.
And somewhere in his chest, Eli felt the first pull of something dangerous—hope.
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