I whispered her name under my breath as I folded the note and slipped it carefully into my pocket. Her shirt still rested on the couch — faintly damp, faintly fragrant, like a memory that refused to fade. I picked it up, hesitated for a moment, then placed it away, somewhere safe.

When I walked into the kitchen, the same window where we had stood last night greeted me. The rain-streaked glass now shone faintly under the morning light. It was the same place, but it felt different — almost unreal.

“I can’t believe I let that happen,” I muttered to myself, though deep inside, a part of me didn’t want to deny it.

On the table, another note waited for me — not hers this time.

My father’s handwriting.

A plate of breakfast sat beside it, steam still rising.

I sat down, unfolded the note, and read.

A small laugh escaped me before I realized it.

The note felt warmer than usual — more alive.

Maybe because it was the first time he wrote about something real.

No, that wasn’t it.

It had always been written like this, trying to sound close, trying to sound real.

If someone read these notes, they’d think my father and I shared some deep connection.

But in truth, it was just a performance —

A practiced drama on the grand stage of life,

where even silence had its lines,

and we both just played our parts.

“I might be Shakespeare,” I said quietly, a half-smile crossing my lips.

I began eating, the house around me heavy but not empty.

Each bite of breakfast felt oddly warm — maybe because someone had actually thought of me, even if through paper and memory.

Still… her presence lingered.

Every corner of the house seemed to hum faintly with the echo of her voice.

Her laughter. Her light.

Aira… who are you?

The question slipped out, not from my lips, but somewhere deeper.

And for a moment, I almost expected her to answer.

But the house stayed silent,

and the world outside carried on as if nothing had changed.

I finished the last sip of coffee, stood up, and got ready to leave.

Yet as I closed the door behind me, I could still feel her warmth following me —

like a scent the morning refused to wash away.

---

I walked through the wet roads. The city seemed washed clean, every street glistening under the pale sunlight after last night’s rain. The air smelled fresh — almost too clean — like the world had forgiven everything for a day.

By the time I reached school, nothing had changed.

Same laughter echoing in the corridors.

Same jokes tossed carelessly into the air.

Same meaningless chatter that filled the silence people were too scared to face.

It was strange — how the world could stay so light while I carried so much weight inside.

“How ironic,” I whispered under my breath.

Then, through the noise and chatter, I heard a familiar voice.

She was surrounded by her friends — bright, laughing, alive. The center of attention as always. She fit among them perfectly, like she belonged to that effortless world of smiles and normality.

For a second, her eyes met mine.

That same teasing smile appeared on her lips — not warm, not shy, but sharp and playful, like she knew something I didn’t.

I sighed quietly and turned my head away, refusing to react.

But somehow, I knew looking away wouldn’t make a difference.

Even without seeing her, I could still feel her — like a ripple running through the calm surface I was trying to keep.

I sank into my seat, trying to block out the voices, the laughter, the ordinary chaos of the classroom. For a brief moment, I almost managed to find some peace. Trying to finally relax.

Then—

A voice broke through the noise.

It was—

Miyamura.

The rising star of our school’s basketball team.

Tall, blonde, confident — the kind of guy who didn’t need to try to be popular.

Almost every girl in school was a fan, and almost everyone knew his name.

“Hey, Arisu.”

He said it with that easy smile, patting my back like we were old friends.

I turned to him slowly, keeping my face blank. The last thing I needed was someone disturbing my peace.

“Hi. But… who are you again?” 

I asked without hesitation.

That question froze him mid-smile.

Of course I knew who he was — who didn’t?

But if I pretended otherwise, maybe he’d just give up and leave.

After a few seconds of awkward blinking, he spoke again.

“I’m Miyamura.”

He pulled a chair from the guy next to me — who gave it up instantly, obviously starstruck — and sat down like he owned the place.

“So, Miyamura. What do you want?”

“Straight to the point, huh?” He chuckled. “I like that.”

I sighed. “Just say it.”

“Well,” he said, leaning forward a little, “I wanted to ask something about Aira.”

The sound of her name made something stir in me, but I kept my face still.

“Aira? Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I like her,” he said casually, “And I’ve seen you two together. You seem… close. So I was hoping if you could...”

“Sorry. No chance. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

I cut him off before he could finish.

“But—”

“Ok, fine then,” he grinned, “let’s be friends first.”

“No.”

It was exactly as I thought — hang around a beautiful girl for even a moment, and suddenly everyone wants to be your friend. Even the people who never noticed you before.

I thought he would leave me after such a direct rejection.

But he was more persistent than I expected.

He followed me everywhere.

In the cafeteria:

“Oh, hey Arisu!”

In the ground:

“Oh! Didn’t see you here, Arisu!”

On the roof:

“Lovely wind today, Arisu!”

Even outside the restroom:

“Do you need toilet paper, Arisu?”

“GET AWAY, YOU CREEP!” I yelled, slamming the stall door.

I ran and hid to save my life from that man.

By the time the last lecture ended, I’d almost managed to lose him. Almost.

---

It was the last lecture so I came to my class.

After all the exhaustion of running from him, Aira appeared — that same teasing smile on her lips.

“Having fun with your new best friend?”

“Best friend?”

I didn’t even have the energy to argue against that abusing statement.

That guy is so going to die by my hand.

I sighed and looked outside the window.

She followed my gaze, standing quietly beside me.

The classroom was still empty. There was still some time left for the lecture to start.

“You know, Arisu…” she said softly, “you try too hard to hide your beautiful smile and what you truly want. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

I blinked. Her words hit closer to the darkness in me than I wanted to admit. So the reply also came from the darkness within me.

“Well,” I began, “a person only finds out who they really are — what life really is — when they pass through a storm.

When things start to shatter.

When everything they thought would last just… stops.

Then they realize there’s no one but themselves.

That’s when people change — or maybe, that’s when they finally become who they really are.”

My reflection stared back at me from the glass — distant, fractured by the dim light.

I had already been through my storm.

And no one else would ever understand.

But then, she spoke again — calm, bright, gentle.

“Sometimes,” she said, “the real beauty of life comes after the storm.”

I turned toward her, surprised.

“What do you mean?”

She smiled, that soft light returning to her eyes.

“Remember the rain last night? It fell so hard it stopped everything.

Trains were delayed, people were trapped in their homes, the stars and the sun both disappeared.

But now — look outside. The morning after.”

Her voice grew tender, her eyes reflecting the sunlight filtering through the clouds.

“Everything looks beautiful again. The streets are washed clean.

The wind is softer, a little cold, but nice.

The roads are still wet — but fresh.

See, the rain didn’t ruin life. It gave it a new beginning.

It’s not the storm that breaks you — it’s what you do after it ends.

It’s how you start again… when everything is still wet and broken.”

Her words pierced through me like a quiet light cutting into the dark.

For the first time, I couldn’t keep up my usual mask.

I just stood there, staring at her — silent, helpless, like a child who had just seen something far beyond his understanding.

---