Chapter 5: 

                                                                  When Words Aren’t Enough

The classroom was half-empty.

The final bell had rung long ago, and most students had already scattered—some to their clubs, some home through puddled streets, others nowhere in particular.

Renji stayed back, staring at the last page of his notebook.

Not because he was studying.

But because she was still there.

Yui sat two rows ahead, quietly packing her things. Her movements were slow, thoughtful—like she wasn’t ready to leave either.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say.

Only that he needed to say something.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She looked up.

For a moment, the quiet between them held all the weight of the past and none of the right words for it.

“I never got to thank you,” Renji said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“For what?” she asked, standing still.

“For that day. For the umbrella. For not saying anything, even though… even though I probably looked like a complete idiot.”

She smiled—not wide, not teasing. Just enough to soften her whole face.

“I didn’t think you were an idiot,” she said. “Just… sad.”

Renji blinked.

“Was I that easy to read?”

Yui tilted her head. “No. But the way you stood there, holding broken pieces in your hand like they still worked… I knew what that felt like.”

Silence again.

But this time, it wasn’t painful.

It was honest.

She walked toward him—not fast, not slow. Her shoes clicked gently on the floor. She stopped beside his desk.

“Do you still have it?” she asked.

He looked confused. “The umbrella?”

She nodded.

He reached into his bag and pulled out something wrapped in an old cloth. As he unwrapped it, the colors revealed themselves: pale blue, worn edges, and inside—

Her name. Ame Yui, in faded ink.

Her breath caught.

“You kept it?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Renji said, gently brushing dust from the fabric. “I just couldn’t… throw it away.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then, Yui placed her hand lightly on the desk beside it.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” she whispered.

“I never did.”

She looked at him.

This time, longer. Like she was trying to remember the boy she once helped. And slowly, she did.

“I asked myself a hundred times,” she said, “whether I should’ve stayed that day. Said something. Told you my name.”

He shook his head. “If you had, it wouldn’t have felt like magic.”

She laughed—quietly, sincerely.

They stood there, the umbrella between them.

Some memories live in things, not words.

Some names are never forgotten, even if never spoken aloud.

And for once, the rain didn’t fall.

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