The morning that followed was quiet.
Shinichi awoke to the rhythmic tapping of rain against the balcony window. The sky beyond the glass was a sheet of gray, endless and unmoving, and the city itself seemed to have dulled in color.
The usual clamor of bicycles on pavement and chattering students in the courtyard had softened to a background hum, muffled by nature's curtain. It was the kind of rain that didn't roar or rage, but persisted—a steady, melancholic drizzle that seemed content to linger.
He lay in bed longer than usual, arms folded beneath his head, blanket tangled around his legs. The events of the previous night drifted through his mind like scenes from a half-remembered film.
The laughter, the scent of miso and warm rice, the way Koizumi had leaned against him so trustingly, the flash in Hinoka's eyes when she said you're going to have to choose someday.
It hadn't left him. Not even in sleep.
Shinichi exhaled heavily, sitting up and running a hand through his already messy hair. His room was dim, lit only by the diffused daylight through the curtains. A half-finished manga sat on his desk, a cup of instant ramen beside it, untouched.
He stood, stretched, and wandered into the kitchen, where the scent of last night's cooking still faintly clung to the air.
The apartment felt... still. Not empty, but suspended, like a stage awaiting actors.
By habit, he checked his phone. A message from Koizumi had arrived an hour earlier:
"Don't forget your umbrella. It's a downpour. -K"
He smiled faintly, typing back a simple "Thanks." Nothing more. There was comfort in how she always reminded him of small things, even when silence filled the spaces between their words.
As he turned toward the bathroom, there was a knock at the door.
He blinked.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
He opened the door to find Hinoka standing there in a bright yellow raincoat, damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, and a plastic bag in one hand.
"Breakfast," she said. "You looked like a ghost yesterday. Figured you wouldn't have the energy to cook."
Shinichi stepped aside instinctively, letting her in. She peeled off the raincoat, revealing her usual hoodie and skirt combo, somehow dry underneath.
She shook the bag slightly and strode to the table without waiting for permission, pulling out onigiri, canned coffee, and a container of tamagoyaki.
He watched her with a strange mixture of affection and unease. "You're... unusually generous today."
Hinoka gave a lopsided grin as she sat down, setting out the food. "Don't get used to it. I'm just bored."
They ate in near silence. The rain was louder now, a percussion rhythm on the windows, and the warm food melted away the morning chill. Shinichi stared at the tamagoyaki. It was perfectly shaped—fluffy, golden, slightly sweet.
"Koizumi helped, didn't she?"
Hinoka looked up slowly, then shrugged. "I might've asked her for a tip or two."
There was a long pause.
"She still likes you, you know," she said at last.
Shinichi lowered his chopsticks.
Hinoka's voice remained steady, but her gaze drifted to the window. "She tries not to show it too much. She doesn't want to pressure you. But it's there. Always has been."
He swallowed. "And you?"
She turned back to him with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't play dumb. You know exactly how I feel."
The rain continued to fall.
He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat. Hinoka didn't press. She stood after finishing her coffee, grabbing her coat again.
"Walk me to campus," she said. "You need fresh air."
He followed her quietly, umbrella in hand. The world outside was slick and glistening, the pavement painted in reflections of streetlamps and signage.
The campus, even in the morning downpour, buzzed with life—students dashing from one building to another, shielding their heads with folders or half-open bags.
Hinoka didn't speak much on the way, but she didn't need to. Her presence was a steady flame beside him, vibrant and warm even in the grayness. When they reached the main gate, she stopped.
"I'm heading to the student council room," she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. "You?"
"Library," he replied.
She nodded. "Don't overthink things too much."
"I'm not."
She arched an eyebrow. "You're always overthinking. That's your brand."
He laughed under his breath.
She hesitated, then leaned in slightly, her voice low. "But really... just don't wait too long, Shinichi. We're not kids anymore. You'll hurt someone if you keep stalling."
Then she turned and walked off, merging into the stream of umbrellas and students.
—
The library was warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the world outside. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched out like cathedral arches, and the scent of old paper hung in the air. Shinichi wandered without purpose, fingertips trailing over spines of books he didn't plan to read.
Eventually, he found himself at a corner table, tucked between two shelves. He sat, unfolded his notes for a class he barely remembered attending, and stared at them without reading.
The sounds of pages turning and muffled footsteps surrounded him like white noise.
It was then that Koizumi appeared.
She moved like a shadow, soundless and careful. Her uniform was immaculate, umbrella hooked on her arm, droplets still clinging to its fabric.
She spotted him almost immediately and offered a small smile, walking over with the hesitancy of someone stepping into a fragile space.
"Mind if I join you?"
He gestured to the seat across from him.
She sat, pulling out a notebook and pen. For a while, they said nothing. Then:
"Did Hinoka bring you breakfast?"
He blinked. "How did you—?"
"She told me she would. She wanted to make something decent. Said your cooking's tragic."
"Thanks for the faith."
Koizumi smiled faintly, but it faded quickly.
"She told you, didn't she?"
Shinichi met her eyes. "About what?"
Koizumi looked down. "How she feels."
He nodded slowly.
There was a silence between them, more weighty than any before. Koizumi's fingers tightened slightly around her pen.
"I've known since we were kids," she said. "That someday, one of us would get left behind."
Shinichi's throat tightened.
"I used to think I was okay with that," she continued. "As long as we stayed close. As long as I got to be by your side, I didn't care if I wasn't chosen."
He reached out across the table, hesitated, then placed his hand over hers.
"But lately," she whispered, "I've started wanting more. And it scares me."
They sat in the quiet, hand over hand, books surrounding them like silent witnesses. Outside, the rain softened to a gentle drizzle. The storm was not over—but it had changed.
And perhaps so had they.