Chapter 8: If I Laugh, Will You Stay?
The rain didn't let up for days.
But Yumi didn't mind. It gave her a reason to walk him home. No one questioned it when she held the umbrella.
Akiro never brought his own.
"I like the rain," he said once.
She smiled. "You say that about a lot of things that hurt."
He didn't deny it.
They stopped at a convenience store. Yumi bought hot milk tea. Akiro bought two rice balls, a manga volume with the cover half torn, and another can of that bitter iced coffee she hated.
They sat on the curb behind the store.
The sky was charcoal.
The air tasted like asphalt and steam.
"Do you always eat like this?" she asked, sipping her tea.
"Cheap. Fast. Quiet. What's not to like?"
"Your taste buds deserve an apology."
He smirked.
She unwrapped a rice ball and handed it to him. "Trade. You try this one, and I try that nightmare coffee thing again."
He raised a brow. "Even after last time?"
"I've grown as a person."
They traded. She sipped. Grimaced.
He bit. Paused. Looked at her.
"This is tuna mayo."
"Yes."
"…I hate tuna."
She blinked. "What? Why didn't you say anything?"
He shrugged. "You looked happy."
Yumi stared at him.
This boy, she thought, is either emotionally constipated or dangerously sweet.
"…You're an idiot."
"So I've been told."
They ate in silence.
It wasn't awkward anymore. It felt normal.
Which was terrifying in its own way.
Later, they walked toward the edge of his neighborhood — the one he never let her enter.
Tonight, he stopped.
Looked at her.
Then muttered, "Come in."
She blinked. "What?"
"You wanted to see. Right?"
"…Are you sure?"
He nodded, slowly. "Don't expect much."
The apartment was small. Dim. Clean in a tired kind of way.
The walls were gray. The kitchen smelled faintly of cigarettes and ramen.
Akiro's room had one shelf of books, a half-broken game console, and the hoodie she'd borrowed folded at the foot of the bed.
Yumi stood in the doorway, quiet.
He watched her for a long moment. Like he was waiting for judgment.
She walked in, sat on the floor, and said, "It's warmer than I expected."
A pause.
Then, his voice — lower, closer:
"…You're the first person I've let in here."
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
And this time, she did reach out.
Her hand found his.
Rough skin. Cold fingers.
But he didn't pull away.
He let her hold him.
Like it meant something.
Like it might save him.
And for one brief, shivering moment…Yumi believed it might.