Sebastian's POV
There are moments that knock the breath out of you.
Not with a punch. Not with pain.
But with memory.
With the cruel reminder of who someone used to be… and how beautiful they still are.
Today was her birthday. I only knew because I heard it from someone whispering in the cafeteria line, some girl saying,"I think that weird Rain girl turns twenty today. She's not even having cake. Tragic."
Tragic.
If only they knew.
If only they saw what I saw when she walked into the lecture hall that morning.
Not in her usual crisp black coats or oversized turtlenecks. Not in those layers she used to wrap around herself like armor.
No—today, Rain Wang walked in wearing white.
A white satin dress, soft and cruelly beautiful, like snow over a battlefield. It hugged her gently, but elegantly—falling mid-calf, cinched at the waist like it was sewn just for her. No sleeves. No coats. Just skin, soft and pale and real.
And her hair.
God, her hair.
She wore it down today.
Not in braids or buns or knots. Just cascading behind her like ink spilling down her back. It was longer than I remembered. Longer than it should've been. Thick and straight, heavy and dark, like shadows trailing her steps.
And for the first time in a long time—she looked like the girl I met in the rain.
The one who looked up at the med building like she didn't belong. The one with trembling fingers and big eyes that used to search for safety she never found.
She was that girl again. But stronger now.
Quieter. But sharp.
A living wound dressed in white.
And I—God help me—I stared.
The whispers started before she even reached her seat.
"Is that Rain?""What's with the dress?""She thinks she's pretty now?""What's the occasion—her own funeral?"
But she didn't flinch. Not once.
She kept walking, head high, that long hair trailing behind like silk in war. Her heels clicked with purpose. Her silence louder than all their voices.
She didn't look at me. Not even when she sat down just one row ahead. Not even when my name was called after hers during roll call.
Not even when the professor complimented her clinical scores—top of the class, again.
She didn't need to look.
Because I was already falling apart in my seat.
Every breath I took felt like I was inhaling all the damn things I'd said to her over the years. Every cruel word I'd thrown. Every hallway whisper I'd laughed at. Every stare. Every dare. Every time I saw her flinch and did nothing.
And now—she bloomed.
She bloomed in spite of me.
Because of me.
I don't know.
All I know is this:There's nothing more terrifying than watching the girl you destroyed learn how to wear beauty again—Not for you.
Not for anyone.
But for herself.