Chapter 4

                                                                     A Question She Didn’t Ask

The rooftop was quiet—too quiet for a school filled with hundreds of students.

A cool breeze stirred the air, rustling the hem of Yui's skirt as she stood near the railing, her eyes fixed on the horizon where clouds still lingered. From this height, the city felt blurred and distant, like it belonged to a softer world painted in watercolor. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the scent of it still lingered—fresh, earthy, nostalgic.

Renji hesitated at the rooftop door, holding two cans of warm coffee from the vending machine. He hadn’t meant to follow her.

But somehow, his feet had brought him here.

She didn’t turn.

“Thought you might want something warm,” he said, his voice low.

Yui turned slightly, surprised—but then softened. She accepted the coffee with a gentle nod.

“Thank you.”

Renji leaned on the railing across from her, giving her space.

The silence between them was thick—but not uncomfortable.

“I come here when it gets too loud,” she said, almost to herself.

“Me too,” he answered.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Something passed between them—soft, old, unnamed.

Then she smiled. Just barely. Just enough.

“You remember things too well, don’t you?”

Renji blinked.

“…What makes you say that?”

She looked at him directly. “You're the kind of person who notices everything. But never says a word. You carry things around that no one else even remembers.”

He was quiet. But her words struck a nerve.

Because she was right.

And he couldn’t help but wonder… did she remember him too?

He studied her—how she cradled the coffee like something breakable. How her eyes drifted when she spoke.

She was the same. But also not.

“Do you…” he paused, “Do you keep a diary?”

She tilted her head, surprised.

“Since I was ten.”

“I thought so.”

There was a long silence after that.

He looked away, tapping the can softly against the railing.

“That day… in the rain… my umbrella broke. Someone gave me theirs. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled and left.”

Yui didn’t say a word.

But her fingers curled tighter around the can.

“There was a name written inside,” he added.

“Ame Yui.”

The wind moved between them.

She said nothing.

Until, finally, so quietly he barely heard her—

“I liked the rain back then.”

He turned.

She still wasn’t looking at him. But her eyes shimmered—not from tears, but from memories catching up.

So she remembered.

Even if she wasn’t ready to say it.

He stepped just a little closer.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said softly.

She turned to face him, startled.

He gave her the faintest smile.

“Just don’t forget it.”

Her eyes held his. Not scared. Not closed. Just… full.

And she nodded.

That was enough.

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