The sky was an endless gray that morning — soft, muted, undecided between rain and sunlight. Ren liked it that way. Days like this felt like pauses in time, moments when the world forgot to move forward.
It was his eighteenth birthday.
He hadn't told anyone. His mother would probably forget, and his friends at school — the few he had — wouldn't care much beyond a casual "Happy birthday, man." He didn't mind. Birthdays had always felt like someone else's kind of celebration.
But this year, he wanted one thing.Just one.
He wanted to see her.
So he skipped class, walked through the drizzle, and found himself at the same crooked house that had begun to feel more like home than his own.
She was there — of course she was. Sitting by the window, as if she'd been waiting for the same sky to turn gray.
"You're early," she said without turning around.
"I could say the same," Ren replied.
Miyako glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes softened when she saw him. "You didn't bring bread this time?"
He smiled faintly. "No. I came for something else."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
Ren sat down across from her. His heart was too loud; he wondered if she could hear it. "It's my birthday."
Her brows lifted, surprised. "Today?"
He nodded.
She smiled. "Happy birthday, Ren."
It was a small thing to say — ordinary, even — but when she said his name, it felt like something fragile and beautiful cracked open inside him.
He tried to keep his voice steady. "You're the first person to say that today."
Miyako blinked, as though that fact startled her. "You didn't tell anyone?"
"I didn't want to."
"Why not?"
Ren shrugged. "Birthdays feel like pretending something's changed when it hasn't. But…" He hesitated. "I wanted to see you."
The rain outside deepened, tapping gently against the glass.
"Ren—"
"I like you," he said before he could stop himself.
The words came out too fast, too raw. They hung in the air between them like something that couldn't be taken back.
Miyako froze. Her eyes widened slightly — not in shock, but in something heavier. The kind of silence that comes from knowing this moment was always coming.
He swallowed. "I know it sounds stupid, but it's not. It's not just… a crush or something. I think about you all the time. I wait for the rain so I can see you. I—"
"Stop."
Her voice wasn't harsh, but it was firm. It stopped him like a wall.
Ren stared at her, heart pounding. "Why?"
Miyako's gaze lowered to her hands. She was turning her thermos cap slowly, as if it required her full attention. "You're eighteen," she said softly. "You don't know what you want yet."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"It's not!" His voice cracked. "You think I don't understand because I'm young, but I do. I know what I feel. It's real."
She sighed — a long, tired sound, almost like sadness. "I believe that you believe it's real."
That made him angry — not because she was cruel, but because she was calm. Too calm. Like she had already rehearsed this conversation a hundred times before.
"Then what about you?" he demanded. "Do you feel nothing when we talk? When we meet here?"
Her eyes flicked up — brief lightning in gray skies. "I shouldn't have let it go this far."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give."
Ren clenched his fists. "You said you come here because no one asks anything of you. But I'm not asking anything! I just— I just want to be with you. Isn't that enough?"
Miyako looked at him for a long, painful moment. He thought she might cry. Instead, she smiled. And it broke him more than tears ever could.
"You're kind," she said quietly. "And you see people too clearly. That's dangerous."
"Then tell me what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong, Ren."
"Then why does it hurt like I did?"
Her hand twitched slightly, as though she wanted to reach for him — but she didn't. Instead, she stood.
"Because growing up always hurts," she said. "And you're doing it right now."
He stared at her, his throat burning. "Don't say that like you're proud of me."
She laughed softly — a sound that was more sigh than laughter. "Maybe I am."
And then she turned to leave.
"Miyako," he called, voice cracking. "If I were older—"
"You're not."
"If I were— would it be different?"
She stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he thought she might look back. She didn't.
"The rain doesn't fall twice the same way, Ren," she said. "And neither do people."
The door closed behind her.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the empty space she left behind. The rain softened into mist, the world turning hazy.
On the dusty floor beside him lay a faint outline where her hand had rested, a small mark of warmth already fading.
Ren picked up his notebook, opened to a blank page, and wrote:
"She wished me a happy birthday.I wished she hadn't."
Then he tore the page out, folded it carefully, and slipped it between the old floorboards.A small, secret burial for something that had never truly lived.