Convenience store light. Harsh. White. Made everything look fake. Like a stage set.
They stood under the awning. Rain coming down in sheets. A wall of water between them and the parking lot. His bike was leaning against a pole. Locked. Hers was gone. A bent wheel finally gave out.
"Stupid," she said. Kicked at a wet cigarette butt. "Whole thing's rust."
"You walked?"
"Ran. Mostly."
She was soaked. Hair plastered to her forehead. Sweater a heavy, dark weight. She shivered. A constant tremor.
He bought two coffees from the machine. Bitter brown water in paper cups. Handed her one. "Here."
Their fingers touched. Wet. Cold. Same charge. Always that charge.
They sipped. Burned their tongues. Didn't care.
"My dad found the cigarettes," he said. To the rain.
"What happened?"
"Slapped me. Said I was a disappointment." He shrugged. Like it was nothing. It was everything. "Took the Discman."
She was quiet. Staring into her cup. "My mom found the mint wrappers. In my coat. Said it was cheap. Trashy." She looked up. Eyes were red. Not from the rain. "They don't see me. They see a problem to fix."
The awning leaked. A cold drip landed on his neck. Trickled down his spine.
"Where do you go," she said. Not looking at him. "When you're not on the roof. Or here."
Nowhere. "Just drive. On my bike. To the river. Watch the water. It's brown. But it moves."
"I go to the library," she said. "Third floor. Science section. No one goes there. It smells like dust. Old glue. It's quiet."
Two blueprints of escape. Drawn in wet concrete.
The rain slowed. A drizzle now. The world smelled wet. Wet asphalt. Wet cardboard. The sour smell of their cheap coffee.
She turned to him. Face pale in the fluorescent glare. "Tomorrow. Where will you be?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. Where will you be, Kenji?"
The question was too big. It filled the space between them. Pushed out the air.
He didn't have an answer. He had a bike. A burning in his chest. Her finger on his wrist. That was it.
"I don't know," he said. Truth.
"I'll be gone," she whispered. Voice cracked. "They're sending me. To a school. In Kyoto. In spring. Law track. A dorm. Everything."
The words were physical blows. Kyoto. Law. Dorm. Gone.
The coffee cup crumpled in his hand. Hot liquid spilled over his fingers. He didn't feel it.
"When?"
"April."
It was January. The math was cruel. A handful of weeks. A handful of cold rooftops.
"So that's it," he said. Flat. Dead.
"No." She said it sharp. Final. She grabbed his wrist. Not like on the roof. Hard. Desperate. Her nails bit in. "That's not it. You said you'd drive. Away. You said you'd take me."
He had. He did.
"So take me," she said. Her eyes were wild. Reflecting the store lights. "Not now. But… after. After all this. After their plans. We meet. We go. Anywhere. Nowhere. Just away. Like you said."
A vow. In a convenience store parking lot. With the smell of wet trash and regret.
He looked at her. Really looked. Saw the fear. The hope. The desperate, stupid faith she was putting in him. In this. In them.
He nodded. A slow, heavy movement. "Okay."
"Promise."
"I promise."
"Say it."
"I promise. After. We go. Together."
She let go of his wrist. Left little half-moon marks. A tattoo. Her breath came out in a rush. A cloud of mint and coffee.
"Okay," she said. Like she'd been holding her breath for years.
The rain stopped. Just like that. A sudden silence. The only sound was the hum of the store cooler.
They stood there. In the aftermath. The promise hung between them. A new, fragile thing. More delicate than a cigarette ember. Easier to crush.
He'd just promised a future he couldn't picture. To a girl he'd known for a handful of days. It was insane. It was the only sane thing he'd ever done.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. A brief, heavy weight. "Tomorrow. The roof?"
"Yeah."
"Even if it rains."
"Especially if it rains."
She smiled. A small, broken thing. Then she walked away. Into the damp, dark street. No bike. Just her. And the promise.
He stood there until the clerk gave him a look. He got on his bike. The seat was wet. His clothes were wet. He didn't care.
He pedaled. Not toward home. Toward the river. The brown water. The thing that moved.
He'd made a promise. It sat in his gut. A stone. A anchor. A lifeline.
He'd have to become someone who could keep it. Someone who could drive. Someone who could take her away. He had no idea how. No money. No plan. No nothing.
Just a burning. And now, a promise.
It would have to be enough. It was all he had.