Aya walked beside me, quiet as ever, but something about her silence felt different. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… full. Like she was holding thoughts she hadn't decided to keep or let go.
The umbrella wasn't big enough for both of us, but she kept drifting closer instead of pulling away. I pretended not to notice, even though every time her shoulder brushed mine, I felt it more than the rain.
She didn't look at me again, but she didn't look away either.
That tiny space between us—shared, warm, awkward—felt more real than anything the whole day.
I shouldn't have cared this much.
But I did.
We reached the end of the station path, where the street split into two narrow lanes. Aya hesitated, like she wasn't sure which direction reality was waiting in.
She finally exhaled. "You really don't have to walk me home."
"I know," I said.
She looked at me, brows tight. "…Then why are you?"
I shrugged lightly. "Because I wanted to."
Aya frowned—the same confused, irritated, soft look she always gave me when she didn't know how to answer.
"I don't get you," she said quietly.
Good. If she understood everything too fast, she'd run.
"You don't have to get me," I replied. "Not yet."
Her eyes flicked away at that. A sign I'd touched something. Again.
---
The drizzle made everything glow—streetlights, puddles, even the leaves sticking to the pavement. Aya stepped around them carefully, like she didn't want to crush anything. She always moved like she was afraid of taking up space.
I wondered who made her that way.
"Your drawing," I said suddenly. "It looked… peaceful."
She stiffened. "…It wasn't finished."
"Didn't ask if it was. I said it was peaceful."
"I wasn't drawing peacefully."
"Yeah. I noticed."
Aya shot me a glare, then looked away too quickly.
Cute.
"I draw storms," she muttered, almost too soft to hear. "Not peace."
"Sometimes," I said, "you end up drawing things you need, even if you don't realize it."
She froze mid-step.
For a moment, the only sound between us was rain tapping the umbrella.
"…Stop saying things like that," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because they're too…" She chewed the inside of her cheek. "Too much."
Too honest, she meant. Too close.
"Okay," I said gently. "Then I won't say it again."
She looked surprised—like she expected me to push.
I could have.
But I didn't want to break whatever fragile thing was forming between us.
We continued walking. Aya's steps slowed the closer we got to her street. When we reached the corner, she stopped completely.
"This is where I turn," she said, hugging her sketchbook to her chest.
"Got it."
"And… you should go home."
I smiled. "Are you ordering me to?"
"Yes," she said quickly. Too quickly. "I am."
"Alright, alright." I held the umbrella steady above her one last time. "I'll listen."
Aya shifted, uncomfortable. "You usually don't."
"Only when you tell me to leave," I said softly. "That's the one thing I'll listen to."
She blinked, startled by the gentleness in my voice. I didn't mean for it to slip out like that, but it was too late to take back.
Aya looked away again. "You're weird."
"Thanks," I said.
"It wasn't—"
"I know."
Her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.
She failed.
Barely.
She took a step toward her street. The rain caught her hair, leaving tiny beads that glimmered under the streetlamp.
"…Goodnight, Rei," she said without looking back.
I didn't answer right away. I watched her walk. Watched the way her shoulders curled inward, then slowly—just a little—unfolded, like she wasn't carrying as much weight as before.
Maybe she wasn't.
"Goodnight, Aya," I said finally.
She didn't turn around, but I saw the smallest nod.
I stood there under the umbrella long after she was gone. The drizzle softened into mist. The city lights blurred. The world felt different, lighter, as if something inside me had shifted without asking permission.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was everything.
All I knew was that her silence didn't scare me anymore.
And I wanted to hear it again.