Chapter 5 - Rain Between the Lines
It rained that Wednesday morning.
The kind of rain that didn't come with thunder or drama, just a steady curtain of soft droplets that blurred the world into watercolor.
The windows of Tensei High fogged slightly from the moisture, and students shook umbrellas dry in the entranceway, muttering complaints.
Nanami Murakawa didn't mind the rain. She found comfort in it—the way it drowned out noise and made everyone a little quieter, a little slower.
She arrived earlier than usual. Her steps were soft against the damp floor, shoes squeaking faintly. Her hair, usually straight and neat, was a little frizzy at the ends from the humidity.
She wore a navy cardigan over her uniform, sleeves pulled over her hands, clutching her sketchbook.
Today, she was nervous.
The day before, she and Yoshiro had decided to create a short manga for the Culture Festival. It felt surreal, almost foolish—like she'd spoken a dream aloud and now it hovered over her, delicate and demanding.
She'd stayed up past midnight, sketching ideas, building scenes. Panels danced in her mind: a boy with a hidden pain, a girl with a silent heart, a meeting beneath a tree, much like theirs.
When she entered the classroom, he was already there.
Yoshiro Takahashi leaned against her desk, flipping through a small notebook. When he saw her, he lit up.
"Morning."
"...Good morning," she murmured.
He held up the notebook. "Story outline. I wrote it last night."
Her breath caught. He really did it. He hadn't just said it—he meant it.
She walked over slowly and took the notebook from him. Her fingers brushed his briefly.
She opened it and scanned the handwritten pages. His handwriting was unexpectedly clean. Structured, but expressive.
The story was simple—quiet, even. A boy who couldn't cry. A girl who couldn't speak. They meet by accident and begin writing notes to each other in a journal left in the school's old library. Through it, they start to understand one another.
Nanami looked up. "This is… really good."
He scratched the back of his head. "It's rough. But I thought it felt like us, a little."
She nodded.
"I'll start storyboarding today," she said.
His smile widened. "We'll make something amazing."
...
By lunch, the rain was still falling. Instead of their usual library corner, they went to the art room. Nanami had asked the teacher in advance for permission to use it during breaks.
It smelled of old paint and wooden easels. A tall window let in soft gray light. It was quiet, save for the rain tapping against the glass.
Nanami sat at the long table, sketchbook open, her pencil already in motion. Yoshiro sat across from her, watching the lines appear.
He wasn't just watching—he was mesmerized.
"You draw so fast," he said.
"I see it in my head," she murmured. "It's like… I'm just tracing what's already there."
He rested his chin on his arms. "Wish I had that kind of magic."
"You do," she replied softly. "With words."
He didn't reply immediately. But when he did, his voice was low. "No one's ever said that to me."
She glanced up. "Really?"
He nodded. "People just see the sports. Or the face. Or the popularity. They don't care about what I write."
Nanami's pencil stopped.
"…I care."
The room grew still. The rain softened.
Yoshiro looked at her then—not with amusement or playfulness, but with a quiet, searching gaze.
"Thank you," he said.
They continued in silence. When Nanami lifted her pencil again, her heart was full of warmth.
The next few days blurred together in a rhythm Nanami had never experienced.
After school, they'd meet in the art room. Yoshiro would bring snacks—milk bread, melonpan, a strawberry soda once—and they'd work.
He'd read aloud the dialogue while she penciled expressions. He asked her opinion on every line, and when she hesitated, he waited.
Sometimes, their hands brushed. Sometimes, their laughter filled the empty hallways after everyone else had gone home.
People began to notice.
Nanami heard whispers in the classroom. Saw glances exchanged. One girl even asked her, too sweetly, "Are you and Takahashi-kun… working on something private?"
Nanami didn't answer.
She didn't know how to explain it—what was happening between them. It wasn't just a project. It wasn't just friendship.
It was becoming something else. Slowly. Carefully. But undeniably.
On Friday, the rain finally stopped. The sky turned pale gold near sunset, and the scent of wet leaves lingered in the breeze.
Yoshiro invited her to walk home together.
Nanami hesitated.
They hadn't walked together before, not outside of school walls. But something in his eyes—gentle, unpressing—gave her the courage.
They left through the back gate, walking down the quiet street behind the school. Plum blossoms dripped rain from their petals.
He didn't talk much. He let her set the pace.
"Your house this way?" he asked eventually.
She nodded.
He tilted his head. "Can I walk you all the way?"
Her heart stammered. But she said, "Okay."
They passed a bookstore. A cat sat curled in the window. She paused, watching it.
"You like cats?"
"…Yes. But I've never had one."
"I'm more of a dog person," he said. "But maybe I could learn to like cats."
She smiled, faintly.
They reached her street.
"This is me," she said.
Yoshiro looked at the small gate, the neat rows of potted plants, the faded wind chime by the door.
"It suits you."
She looked down. "Thank you… for today. And this week."
He nodded.
Then, softly, he said, "Nanami."
She looked up.
He stepped closer, just a little.
"I really like working with you. But I also just… like being with you."
Her breath caught.
"I know you don't let people in easily," he continued. "But I want to be someone who stays."
Her throat tightened. She couldn't speak—not right away.
Instead, she nodded. Once. Slowly.
And Yoshiro, understanding her in ways words couldn't reach, gave her a smile that was brighter than any sun.
"Goodnight, Nanami."
She watched him go, heart fluttering like pages in the wind.
That night, she drew a new panel.
Two characters under an umbrella.
One reaching out, the other just beginning to reach back.