Three days.That's all they had left.
Airi counted them not by dates, but by moments.
Day One.They met at the riverbank after school.
Ren brought his sketchbook. Airi brought silence.
He sat on the grass and started drawing, his fingers stained with pencil lead, the light fading into a soft grey.
She sat beside him, knees drawn to her chest, watching the river move.
"You don't talk much," he said, not looking up.
"You already know what I'd say."
"Say it anyway."
She looked at him. "I don't want you to leave."
He paused his sketching.
Then tore out the page and handed it to her.
It was a sketch of them—side by side, their backs turned, looking at the river.
He had written: "Me neither."
That night, Airi stared at her ceiling, counting the drops as they hit her window.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Ren:
"Can we pretend it's just a normal week?"
She replied without thinking:
"Only if we lie together."
Day Two.Rain again.
The city felt like it was falling asleep.
They walked through the narrow alleys behind the bookstore—his favorite place for "stealing seconds," as he called it.
She asked him what he'd draw if time stopped.
"Everything we wasted," he said.
They ended up at the convenience store.
Ren bought strawberry milk, Airi grabbed his usual canned coffee.
They sat on the curb in silence.
The world blurred behind the fog on the glass.
"Have you told your dad how you feel?" she asked suddenly.
Ren looked surprised. "You first."
"I already did. Sort of."
"He listen?"
"He's trying. It's new."
Ren opened his mouth, then closed it.
The rain wasn't loud, but it filled every pause like it knew how much they were leaving unsaid.
That night, he sent her another message.
"Can we meet earlier tomorrow?"
"How early?"
"Before the sky wakes up."
Day Three.The day he was leaving.
Airi was up before dawn.
The streets were still dark. Streetlights glowed dimly through the fog.
She met him at the hill near the abandoned train crossing—the place where they once watched clouds roll like waves across the sky.
He was already there, standing with his back to her, his bag at his feet.
When he turned, he looked exhausted—but more alive than she'd ever seen him.
"I almost didn't come," she said.
"I would've waited anyway."
He held out the sketchbook.
"The last page is blank," he said. "I want you to fill it."
She blinked. "But I can't draw."
"You don't have to. Write. Glue a leaf. Tape in a photo. Whatever makes you remember this."
Airi took the book in trembling hands.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Me too."
He stepped forward.
Their foreheads touched.
A beat passed.
And then—
He kissed her.
Soft.
Certain.
Like punctuation at the end of a chapter neither of them wanted to finish.
"I don't want this to end here," he said when they pulled apart.
"Then let it begin again," she whispered.
Ren smiled—and stepped back.
"I'll send you sketches. Every week."
"And I'll send words."
They stood like that for a few seconds longer.
And then he picked up his bag.
The sound of a car approaching broke the silence.
His ride.
She watched him walk away, the umbrella still in her hand.
But this time, she didn't chase.
She let him go—because he promised to return.
That night, Airi sat at her desk.
She flipped to the last page of the sketchbook.
Then she pulled out a photo.
It was one Yui had taken of them at the festival booth.
They were laughing.
Unaware of the camera.
Unaware that endings had already begun.
She taped it in.
Then, below it, she wrote in Ren's messy block-letter style:
"Rain is just the sky remembering how to feel."
— Chapter One