Chapter 0 — The Bench Before the Rain
The bench had been there longer than he could remember.
People passed it every day—joggers, couples, parents pushing strollers—but no one ever stayed long. It sat beneath a tired tree at the edge of the park, just far enough from the path to be ignored, just close enough to be seen.
That evening, he sat alone.
The sky hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet. Not dark. Not light. Clouds drifted low and heavy, carrying the faint promise of rain. The wind moved gently through the grass, carrying the smell of damp earth and leaves, brushing through his hair like a quiet reminder that time was still moving.
A soft melody played from his phone—low, almost apologetic. The kind of music people used when they didn't want to disturb their own thoughts.
He stared ahead, not at anything in particular.
"People think love is something you keep," he said quietly, as if the air itself were listening.
"But some things were never meant to stay."
The wind picked up slightly.
"You don't forget it," he continued. "You replay it. Conversations. Smiles. Moments that felt real—whether they were or not."
He exhaled slowly.
"And somewhere in between remembering and pretending you're fine... you start wondering if they ever felt the same."
Silence settled around him.
"The truth is," he said at last, "not everyone you love belongs to you."
A pause.
"Some people come into your life just long enough to show you what your heart is capable of... and then they leave."
The first drop of rain hit the pavement.
"You don't let them go by forgetting," he murmured.
"You let them go by forgiving yourself... for holding on too long."
The music stopped.
He stood as the rain finally began to fall—slow, steady, inevitable—and walked away from the bench without looking back.
Chapter 1 — Six Months Later
The kitchen smelled like rice and soy sauce.
He moved quietly, careful not to wake his sister as he set the grocery bags down by the counter. His shoes were damp from the walk home, soles worn thin, laces fraying at the ends.
"Careful," his mother said from behind him, setting her bag down. "You'll slip."
As if on cue, his foot slid slightly on the tile.
He caught himself and laughed.
"Relax. If I fall, we can't afford the hospital bill anyway."
She clicked her tongue and swatted his arm lightly, but she was smiling.
"You joke too much."
He shrugged and started rinsing vegetables. "Better than worrying."
She watched him for a moment, then frowned slightly. "When did you learn to cook like this?"
"Over time," he said simply. "Someone has to."
Outside, the evening wind drifted through the open window, carrying the distant sound of traffic and birds settling in for the night. It was calm—like the world had decided to pause, just for a moment.
School was different.
Not better. Just... familiar.
The hallway buzzed with noise—lockers slamming, laughter cutting through the air, whispers that followed him like shadows. His backpack strap was torn. One shoe was scuffed beyond repair.
Someone bumped into him on purpose.
"Watch it."
He nodded and kept walking.
It wasn't worth reacting. It never was.
She was already there when he noticed her.
Standing near the entrance, surrounded by people in suits. Security. Cameras. Applause.
She stepped out of the car with practiced ease, dark hair pulled back, posture calm and confident. A smile appeared when she spoke—measured, professional.
"New investments," she said.
"More jobs."
"Better schools."
People cheered.
He listened from a distance, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Empty promises, he thought.
He turned to leave—and that's when their eyes met.
Just for a second.
No smile. No recognition. Just a quiet collision of awareness before the moment passed.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know why he noticed her.
He only knew that, somehow, the wind felt different after that.