He was still standing there when it happened.
The sky pressed darker, and something shifted not in the wind, not in the temperature. In the rain itself. He noticed it the way you notice a sound that stops: the absence before you can name what's missing.
The drops slowed.
It is not the entire world that stops, nor the pigeons on the railing farthest away, nor the train idling, nor the sound of some car miles away that is frozen there within the deluge; it is the rain. The rain as each drop hangs there in perfect stillness about halfway down its way down, as if each drop were a bead on a string you cannot see against the greyish air.
Hiroto's breath caught.
Not again.
The edges of the world went soft, slightly unfocused, as if reality itself had lost its confidence. He pressed his eyes shut.
I'm fine. I'm just tired. This is what grief does. This is what being alone does. I'm fine.
"Oi! Hey — Hiroto!"
A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard. He opened his eyes.
Takumi was standing in front of him, drenched to the bone, umbrella nowhere in sight, wearing the particular expression he reserved for situations he found genuinely alarming.
"What is wrong with you? You're just standing there in the rain with your eyes closed. I've been calling your name for like a minute."
Hiroto looked around. The rain was fast again. Loud and ordinary and real.
"I…" He stopped. "I don't know."
Takumi looked at him for a long moment really looked, the way he rarely did. Then he exhaled through his nose and grabbed Hiroto's arm.
"Come on. I'm taking you home."