Chapter 3: Rainy Days and Unspoken Things
Kazuki had always liked the rain.
It muffled the world. Hid things. Made silence feel natural, not heavy. When it rained, people rushed indoors. Streets emptied. Everything slowed down. It gave him space to breathe.
But lately, rain didn't feel like a retreat anymore. Not since Ayaka came into his life like a gust of wind through an open window—disruptive, unexpected, but strangely welcome.
They sat by the window again that Sunday afternoon, each with a cup of hot tea and a book, though only one of them was really reading.
Ayaka watched the rain. Kazuki watched her.
Her eyes followed the drops as they traced long paths down the glass. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she was thinking of something she couldn't quite say.
"You like the rain too?" Kazuki asked.
She blinked, then looked over at him. "Hmm?"
"The rain. You've been staring at it for half an hour."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "I do. It makes me feel... less alone."
That struck something in him. Something he didn't have words for.
Ayaka turned back to the window. "When I was a kid, I used to pretend the raindrops were racing each other. I'd pick one and cheer it on until it reached the bottom."
Kazuki didn't laugh. He pictured it instead—young Ayaka with her forehead pressed to the glass, cheering for water like it was her only friend. The image made his chest ache a little.
"Still do, sometimes," she added with a shrug. "Old habits die hard."
They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn't empty.
Later that evening, Ayaka made miso soup and grilled fish. Simple, but warm. She moved through the kitchen with ease, humming an old pop song under her breath.
Kazuki sat nearby, occasionally slicing vegetables or rinsing dishes, more to be near the rhythm than out of obligation.
"Hey," Ayaka said suddenly. "I've been wondering something."
"Hm?"
"Do you believe people can really change? Like... actually change, not just pretend?"
Kazuki considered that.
"I think people can learn to act differently. But deep down? I'm not sure."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Me too."
He looked at her, curious. "Why do you ask?"
She stirred the soup, her expression unreadable. "No reason."
But he could tell there was. Something unspoken hung in the air between them, just out of reach.
School resumed on Monday, bringing its usual rhythm of monotony and noise. Ayaka was instantly surrounded by her usual crowd, laughing and talking like always. Kazuki took his seat in the back, head low, invisible again.
But during lunch, something changed.
Ayaka walked past her group and sat beside him.
"Hey," she said, opening her bento.
Kazuki blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Eating. Obviously."
"With me?"
She looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You're my roommate. Why is that weird?"
"Because... people will talk."
"Let them."
And just like that, she began eating, completely unfazed. Kazuki could feel every pair of eyes in the classroom turning toward them. Whispers rose like smoke.
He wanted to shrink into the floor.
"Relax," Ayaka said around a mouthful of rice. "They'll get bored eventually."
Kazuki stared at his uneaten sandwich. "You're too casual about this."
"And you're too tense. Balance."
He didn't have a response to that.
But the next day, she sat beside him again. And the next. And by the end of the week, the whispers had quieted, if not disappeared.
Some students even began treating him like he existed.
...
Friday night arrived with a thunderstorm.
Kazuki sat at his desk, sketching idly in a notebook. Ayaka lay on her futon, headphones on, staring at the ceiling. The rain pounded against the windows like it wanted in.
Without looking over, Ayaka spoke. "Do you draw?"
Kazuki froze, his pencil halfway through a line. "Sometimes."
"Can I see?"
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he handed her the notebook.
She flipped through the pages, her expression unreadable. Then she looked at him with wide eyes.
"These are amazing. Why don't you show anyone?"
"Why would I?"
"Because they're good. You could sell these, you know. Or at least put them online."
Kazuki looked away. "I'm not good with attention."
She nodded. "Still. They're really beautiful."
A pause.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
That night, they stayed up late, talking about nothing and everything. Music. Books. The weird dreams they had as kids.
Ayaka's stories were chaotic and filled with odd details, like the time she tried to bake cookies and ended up setting the microwave on fire.
Kazuki found himself laughing more than he had in years.
Saturday morning arrived with sunlight and warmth. Ayaka dragged him out for a walk, claiming they needed "vitamin D or whatever."
They wandered through the local park, past blooming sakura trees and children chasing bubbles. Ayaka bought ice cream and handed him one without asking.
They sat on a bench under a wide tree. Ayaka kicked her legs idly.
"You know," she said, "I never thought I'd live with someone like you."
Kazuki raised an eyebrow. "Thanks?"
She laughed. "I don't mean it like that. You're just... calm. You don't judge. You listen. That's rare."
He looked at his melting ice cream. "You say that like you've lived with a lot of people."
Her smile dimmed a little. "More than I wanted to."
There it was again. That unspoken thing. A shadow behind her words.
He didn't press.
But later that night, after she'd fallen asleep, he looked at the small pile of her belongings in the corner of the room—the backpack, the folded uniform, the carefully arranged books—and realized he knew almost nothing about her.
And yet, he'd come to rely on her presence.
It scared him.
But it also comforted him.
The days blurred after that. Routine became habit. They shared meals, walked to school together, sat side by side during lunch. They weren't exactly friends, not in the traditional sense, but something had changed.
One evening, Kazuki came home late from work and found Ayaka asleep at the table, her head resting on a textbook.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching her. Her hair fell over her face, her breathing soft and even. The apartment felt warmer than usual.
He moved quietly, pulling a blanket over her shoulders. She stirred, murmured something in her sleep, then settled again.
He didn't know what to call what he felt then. It wasn't love—at least not yet. But it was something.
Something important.
And it was only just beginning.