[Chapter 5: The Rain That Day]
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when Takumi found himself flipping through an old photo album.
His mother had asked him to clean out the closet in the guest room—a chore he'd been successfully avoiding for weeks. But today, for some reason, he didn't try to get out of it.
Maybe a part of me was hoping to find something, he thought, not quite sure what that something was.
The album was thick, its cover worn and corners slightly bent. He brushed off a layer of dust and opened it slowly. Page after page of his childhood stared back at him—birthday parties, family trips, blurry snapshots of a younger version of himself holding toys or flashing awkward smiles at the camera.
And then, about halfway through, something caught his eye.
A photo taken at a local park.
He was younger—probably six or seven—and standing next to a little girl holding a bright pink umbrella. Her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks, and there was a small bandage on her knee. She was smiling shyly at the camera, her hands clasped in front of her.
Takumi leaned closer.
Light brown hair.
A tiny spark lit up in the back of his mind.
No way… Could that really be—?
He quickly flipped to the back of the photo where his mom had scribbled some notes in marker:
> "Takumi with the little girl we met at the park during that rainy day—Shinomiya-chan."
His breath caught in his throat.
So it was her.
Yuri.
He stared at the picture again, the memory slowly coming into focus like an old film being rewound.
That day, he had seen her sitting alone on the swing in the rain, hugging her knees, clearly lost. He'd offered her his umbrella—one with a pattern of cartoon dogs on it—and sat beside her until her mom showed up.
He didn't know her name then. Didn't ask. But they'd talked, just a little. She'd smiled. And when she left, she'd turned back to wave at him with both hands.
All this time…
She remembered.
And I didn't.
Now, that same girl sat beside him every day, helping him with homework, teasing him gently, watching him with a calm gaze that hid something deeper.
He didn't know how to feel.
Regret? For forgetting something that clearly mattered so much to her.
Guilt? For not seeing what she had been trying to show him all along.
Back in school on Monday, he walked into the classroom early—something he never did—and sat at his desk, waiting.
Yuri arrived a few minutes later, just as composed and graceful as always.
"Good morning, Tachibana-kun," she greeted, placing her bag down.
"Yuri," he said, his voice softer than usual.
She blinked, a little surprised at the use of her first name.
He reached into his bag and quietly slipped the photo onto her desk.
Her eyes widened as she stared down at it—at that little girl with the pink umbrella, standing next to a boy with messy black hair and a crooked smile.
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
He found it.
He knows.
Then, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, she whispered, "You remembered."
Takumi nodded slowly. "Not everything. But... enough."
Yuri's hands trembled slightly as she picked up the photo, tracing her fingers over its edges. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no words came.
Why now?
Why does it hurt and heal at the same time?
"I'm sorry," Takumi said quietly. "For not remembering sooner."
She looked at him, eyes wide and glassy, and for the first time since they met, the perfect mask she wore cracked—just a little.
"I thought I was the only one who remembered," she whispered.
"You weren't," he said, his voice steady. "Just... the only one who held onto it."
And for the first time in years, they were no longer just classmates.
They were something more—connected by a memory neither of them had truly forgotten.
Takumi glanced at her, at the way she clutched the photo like something precious, the way her lips quivered even though she tried to smile.
Maybe, he thought, just maybe... I was meant to remember her all along.
And Yuri, sitting beside him, felt something warm rise in her chest—a quiet, fragile hope she hadn't dared to name until now.