Rain started sometime in the early afternoon, and by the time classes let out, the sky was a sheet of gray. Not dramatic thunder or heavy storms—just a steady, cold drizzle that soaked through shoes and made everything feel heavier.
Aira hadn't brought an umbrella.
She stood under the school gate, watching other students disappear into the fog, and tried not to think too hard. About Kaito. About Yuki. About how quiet everything had gotten between them.
Miyo had left early for club. Rina waved goodbye with a knowing look that made Aira's stomach flip. And now she was alone.
Until Kaito showed up.
He didn't say anything at first—just held out his umbrella and tilted it slightly toward her, so the rain stopped touching her shoulders. His other hand was in his pocket, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms.
Aira looked up. "You'll get wet."
"So will you," he said.
She hesitated, then stepped closer under the umbrella. Their shoulders touched.
Kaito didn't look at her. His voice was quiet.
"Are you avoiding me?"
The question hit harder than it should've.
"I'm not," she said quickly. "I just… don't know what to say."
He chuckled, but it wasn't happy. "Then let me say it."
Aira blinked, surprised.
"I love you, Aira," he said, still not looking at her. "I think I've loved you since that dumb science project in first year. And I kept thinking, 'She'll figure it out. One day.' But now…"
He finally turned.
"Now I think you're in love with him."
Her breath caught.
Kaito looked away, blinking quickly. "I'm not mad. Really, I'm not. I just… I need you to stop pretending this is a phase. Or that it's not happening. Because it is. And it hurts."
The rain kept falling. Cars passed. The umbrella started tilting.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I know," he said. "I just wish it changed something."
That night, she didn't sleep.
She sat by her window with a blanket and watched the rain slide down the glass, twisting her phone in her hands.
A message from Yuki blinked at the top of her screen:
"Are you okay?"
She didn't reply.
She didn't know how.
The next day was worse.
Kaito didn't show up for school.
Yuki did.
He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, hoodie sleeves stretched at the cuffs.
He didn't say anything when he passed her desk. Just gave her a quiet look that said he knew.
At lunch, she found him alone on the roof again.
He didn't flinch when she opened the door this time.
"You didn't answer my message," he said without turning around.
"I didn't know how."
"You don't owe me anything, Aira."
She stepped closer. "That's not true."
Yuki turned.
"You don't have to feel guilty for choosing someone," he said. "But you do have to choose. Because right now, you're hurting all of us."
She almost cried.
"I'm sorry."
He exhaled. "I'm not angry. I just… I keep thinking about how good it felt. Just being around you. And now everything's tangled."
"I never meant for it to get like this," she said, voice shaking.
"I know," he whispered. "But it did."
That night, she dreamed of the festival again.
Of lanterns and soft wind and laughter.
Of Kaito, holding her hand.
Of Yuki, waiting just past the crowd.
Of herself, standing between them, frozen.
On Thursday, she asked to leave school early.
Her teacher raised an eyebrow, but let her go.
She walked the long way home, through the quiet residential streets and the park near the old train station. Her chest ached.
She stopped in front of a familiar house.
Kaito's.
It took her ten minutes to knock.
He opened the door with a tired look—and blinked when he saw her.
"Aira?"
She nodded. "Can we talk?"
He let her in without a word.
They sat on his floor, knees barely touching, surrounded by old snacks and half-finished game controllers.
It felt like being thirteen again.
"I hurt you," she said.
He didn't deny it.
"I thought maybe if I said nothing, it would go away. That if I stayed quiet long enough, I wouldn't have to hurt either of you."
Kaito looked at her. "And now?"
"Now I know that silence is hurting you."
He leaned back against his bed frame. "Do you love him?"
Aira looked down.
Then nodded.
Something in his face broke a little—but not in anger. Just sadness.
"I figured," he said quietly.
"I didn't want it to be like this," she said.
"Me neither."
Silence again.
Then he smiled—small, real, painful.
"Yuki's lucky," he said. "He'll never say it, but he's probably loved you longer than I have."
She blinked at him.
"He draws you like you're made of light, you know? I saw his notebook once."
Aira covered her mouth with her hand, overwhelmed.
"You don't have to be sorry," he added. "I'll be okay."
She reached out and hugged him.
He didn't let go for a long time.