That night, the rain wouldn't stop.
It tapped against her window like tiny echoes of her own heartbeat — uneven, heavy, and tired.
Aiyumi sat at her desk, drenched in silence.
Her sketchbook lay open, blank.
The pencil in her hand shook slightly.
Her mind replayed every moment — his cold eyes, those six words, the way he turned away.
Each memory stabbed like glass shards.
She tried to breathe, but every breath hurt.
Tears rolled down, dripping onto the paper.
One drop.
Then another.
Soon, the page was spotted with rain and sorrow.
Without thinking, she started drawing.
Not carefully — just raw, messy lines, dark strokes, trembling curves.
Every tear became a shadow.
Every sob, a line.
She drew him.
His smile.
His eyes.
His back as he walked away.
Then she drew herself — smaller, fading, surrounded by words she couldn't say.
The graphite smudged where her tears fell, blurring the lines between art and emotion.
For the first time, her drawing felt alive — because it carried her pain.
She whispered through the sobs,
"You said forever… and I believed you."
Lightning flashed outside the window.
The sound startled her, but she didn't look away.
Her fingers kept moving — as if her soul refused to stop speaking through her art.
When she finally lifted the pencil, hours had passed.
Her sketchbook showed two silhouettes — standing apart under a cracked sky,
and between them… a faint word she had written in the corner:
"Almost."
Because that's what they were.
Almost lovers.
Almost forever.
Almost everything.