"Some storms don't roar. Some drift in quietly, like feelings we forgot to name."
The sun was out.
It shouldn't have been, not today. Thursdays were made for rain — at least that's how it had always been. But today, the sky was washed in a pale, golden glow, and the clouds barely whispered across the horizon like secrets too shy to speak.
He waited at the bus stop anyway.
Not because he thought she wouldn't come — but because he wasn't sure who he was when she didn't. The space beside him felt too open, the sunlight too honest. Without the rain, there were no shadows to hide behind. It felt like standing beneath a spotlight, unsure what lines he was supposed to say.
And yet, she came.
Ame stepped into view like she was part of the breeze — uncertain, almost weightless. The sunlight tangled in her hair, which fell loose today, softer than he'd ever seen. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes met his like they had always been looking.
Neither of them spoke at first. The lack of rain made everything feel unfamiliar, like meeting in another life.
"It's weird, isn't it?" she said eventually, shifting her schoolbag from one shoulder to the other. "No rain today."
"Yeah," he answered, voice low. "Feels… off."
"It's too bright," she added.
He wanted to laugh — not because it was funny, but because it felt good to hear her say exactly what he was feeling. She sat beside him, carefully, like the bench was fragile or too clean for memories. The silence wrapped around them again, more fragile than the rain ever was.
"Do you think…" she started, then stopped. "Never mind."
He turned slightly. "What?"
Ame fiddled with the strap of her bag. "Do you think we'd still talk if it never rained again?"
The question landed like a drop on dry earth — unexpected but inevitable.
"I'd wait here anyway," he said.
She glanced at him, and something behind her eyes shifted. "Even if the sky stayed clear forever?"
"I don't need the sky to rain to want to see you."
The words left his mouth too easily. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the silence stretching too long. But her breath caught, and he noticed how her fingers tightened on the bag's strap.
There was vulnerability in the air — not the kind that comes from being exposed, but the kind that comes from finally stepping into the light after hiding too long.
"You're different when it's sunny," she murmured.
"So are you."
That made her look at him again — this time longer. Her lips parted, then closed. A cloud passed overhead, dimming the sunlight just slightly. He noticed.
They both did.
It was subtle, but the air shifted. A breeze swept past, rustling the leaves in a way that sounded like a warning.
"I think I got used to the rain," she whispered. "It's easier to talk when no one's really watching."
He nodded. "It feels safer."
Ame leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. Her voice was smaller now, almost afraid. "Do you remember the first time we talked?"
"Of course," he said. "You were standing in the rain without an umbrella. Everyone else avoided the bench. I didn't."
"You looked at me like you already knew me."
"You looked like someone I'd been waiting for."
Another cloud moved in, bigger this time. The sun dimmed further, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. The light wasn't gone, but it was fading — the way innocence fades when words become something more.
"Do you think we'd be different if it never rained again?" she asked.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But not worse."
She smiled faintly. "I don't want this to change."
"It already has."
He wasn't trying to hurt her. He was just being honest. And she didn't flinch. Instead, she breathed in slowly, deeply, as if steadying herself.
The sky above was no longer gold. It had gone pale gray.
Their eyes locked, and something passed between them — slow and growing. Not a storm, not a flash of emotion, but the quiet weight of everything they hadn't said. He looked at her — truly looked — and noticed things he hadn't dared to before. The way her lashes curled slightly at the ends. The faint scar on her chin. The way her lips parted when she was thinking.
She looked back, just as intently.
"Have you ever…" he started, then swallowed. "Do you ever think about—"
"Yes."
He blinked. "You don't even know what I was going to ask."
"You were going to ask if I ever thought about us. About this." Her voice was steady now, anchored in something certain. "I do."
More clouds. Darker this time. The light around them dimmed like a theater setting the stage.
There was no wind, no rain, no sudden music — just two teenagers sitting on a bench, hearts thudding louder than the silence.
He looked at her lips.
She didn't look away.
His hand inched closer to hers on the bench. Not touching — not yet — but daring to close the gap. Her eyes fluttered once, then steadied. Her breath slowed.
He leaned in, heart pounding. She mirrored him.
They kissed.
Not shy. Not a peck. A kiss that had waited through every rainy Thursday, every passing glance, every word they'd swallowed over the past months. It wasn't perfect — their noses bumped slightly, and he wasn't sure where to place his hands — but it was real. It was soft and full and silent.
And halfway through, they heard the bus.
Its engine roared up the hill like thunder, a sound so loud it tore the moment in half. They pulled apart, breathless. Her lips were slightly swollen, eyes wide, expression unreadable.
Reality crashed in.
The kiss had happened. The moment was real.
And so was the goodbye that hung over their heads.
They stood slowly, the sound of the bus brakes loud and present. Neither of them moved to get on yet.
Ame looked at him. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"I knew it would come back to us."
He didn't ask what she meant.
Because he knew.
The clouds above thickened, but not enough to rain. The sky hovered in that delicate space between sun and storm — just like them.
As the bus doors opened with a soft hiss, they stood side by side.
Not quite ready.
Not quite saying goodbye.
But closer than they'd ever been.