[ Rain's POV ]
A week has passed. It's officially the weekend, making this the longest stretch of time I haven't seen Fran's face. But even with the distance, I can't stop thinking about what Athena said. It's been like a splinter in my mind, irritating and impossible to reach.
Should I talk to him? No. Bad idea.
"Rain? Hey, Rain?"
"Oh! Yes?" I snapped back to reality as Sean waved a hand in front of my face.
"The landlady asked if you're okay with the unit?"
"Oh. Yes. But I'll talk to my mother first and call you back," I said, trying to force a smile. We were standing in a small, bright apartment unit, my potential new home. Sean had insisted on tagging along to help me choose.
As we walked out, Sean's phone buzzed.
"Nah. I said I'm busy... You can handle it... Fine, fine. I'll go. Tsk." He hung up with an annoyed groan.
"Was that Chris?" I asked.
"Yeah. They want me to play in the second game. They lost the first one badly."
"That's why I told you I could handle this alone, Sean. Go," I said, giving him a playful nudge toward the parking lot.
"But I promised to help you pick a place," he pouted.
"And you did! Now go help your team. Go!"
After a few more "Take cares" and "Text me when you're home," Sean finally drove off.
Left alone, I wandered to the nearby park and bought some street food. My heart sank as I sat on a bench, this was where Fran and I used to eat all the time.
Then, I remembered. My medical textbooks. I had left the most expensive ones back at the apartment. I needed them for my finals.
Okay, I'm going back for the books, I told myself firmly. Not because I'm worried about him.
When I reached the apartment, the silence was the first thing that hit me. I slowly pushed open the main door. The lights were off, and the air felt stale.
The place was a disaster. It was exactly how I'd left it, only dirtier. The mushroom soup I'd dropped was still a dried, crusty stain on the kitchen tiles. The sink was overflowing with unwashed dishes, and laundry was strewn across the floor like a battlefield.
I walked toward the bedroom, but as the door creaked open, I froze.
Fran was there. He was curled up on my bed, fast asleep.
The sound of the door must have woken him. He opened his eyes, and when we locked gazes, he scrambled to sit up in total shock.
"Rain!" His voice was hoarse—the gravelly sound of someone who hadn't spoken to anyone in days. He looked exhausted.
"The books. I just came to get my books," I said, my voice sounding far steadier than I felt.
I went straight to the shelves, stuffing the heavy volumes into my bag. I could feel his eyes on me, following every movement like he was afraid I would vanish.
I swung the bag over my shoulder and headed for the door, but Fran was right behind me. He didn't say anything; he just trailed after me like a shadow.
I stopped in the living room, looking at the mess on the sofa and the chaos in the kitchen. I let out a long, frustrated sigh.
Fine. Just a little bit. I put my bag down and went to the kitchen. I started scrubbing the dried soup off the floor, then moved to the dishes. Fran didn't help, instead he was still standing beside me watching, so I turned around and gave him a look to go away, but instead of going away, he just sat at the dining table, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Why is he doing this?" I whispered to myself.
After the kitchen, I moved to the laundry. I stuffed his clothes into the washing machine, and as I bent down, I realized Fran was now squatting just a few feet behind me, still watching. When I went to the veranda to hang the damp clothes, he followed me there, too.
I couldn't take the silence anymore. I turned around, giving him my sharpest, most annoyed look. "What?"
He didn't growl back. He didn't insult me. He just looked up at me with these big, sad puppy eyes that made my stomach do a painful flip. I gave up. I just let him follow me.
I finished by vacuuming the sofa. When I finally reached for my bag to leave, a hand caught my wrist. It wasn't the bruising, aggressive grip from before. It was gentle. Hesitant.
"You're leaving?" he asked, looking up at me from the sofa.
I just nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Don't. I'm... I'm sick," he whispered.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"What? You're sick? " Instinctively, I leaned in and pressed my palm to his forehead. It wasn't hot.
"You're not!" I snapped, pulling my hand back. "I need to go."
I grabbed my books and hurried to the door, feeling his gaze heavy on my back. As I reached the gate and turned to close it, I looked back one last time.
Fran was standing in the doorway. He didn't have his usual grumpy, arrogant expression. He just looked... small. Lost.
I walked away, but my heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. I feel like a villain. Leaving him there, standing in the middle of that mess, was harder than the day I actually moved out.