The rain had been falling for days now.
Thin, silver streaks slipped quietly from the sky, soft enough to lull the world into a kind of stillness. Kun Lleigh stood beneath the school's overhang, hand outstretched, fingers catching the droplets one by one.
They were cool against his skin. Light. Gentle.
He smiled to himself.
Lately, he liked the rain. It felt honest.
Maybe it was the season. Mid-June meant the beginning of tsuyu—Japan's rainy season. But to Kun, it felt like the sky had just been quietly weeping alongside him.
He whispered under his breath:
"The sky cries not from sorrow,But to remind the world it still feels.If I could fall like rain,I think I'd finally heal."
A soft laugh came from beside him.
Kun turned to find Ichiko Hazuya—the class president—holding his bag under one arm and watching him with a curious smile.
"Lleigh-san, do you like the rain?" Ichiko asked.
Kun blinked, then gave a small nod. "It's the only time the world feels quiet enough to think."
Ichiko chuckled. But it wasn't mocking. It was warm. Real. Like someone who'd never thought of rain that way before and now couldn't un-hear the poetry in it.
"I didn't expect you to be the poetic type," Ichiko admitted. "You always seem so... quiet. But I think I get it now."
Kun tilted his head. "Get what?"
"That quiet isn't empty. It's just... deeper."
They stood like that for a while, the silence between them as light as the mist curling through the air.
Then Ichiko spoke again. "The school festival is coming up. Do you think it'll rain that day too?"
Kun smiled faintly. "If it does, I'll make a teru teru bōzu. Maybe he'll keep the clouds away, just for a little while."
Ichiko raised a brow. "Ah, one of those little ghost dolls?"
"Yeah," Kun said, smiling. "I've never been to a school festival before. Back in Tokyo, I was either sick or… well, my parents didn't let me."
Ichiko's gaze softened. "Then we'll make sure this one's a memory worth keeping."
Kun blinked at him.
"Oh, and," Ichiko leaned in a little, dropping his voice like a secret, "I saw the event list. Our class is doing a play—Snow White. Genderbent version."
Kun tilted his head, curious.
Ichiko grinned. "I signed you up."
Kun's expression flattened. "Wait. What?"
"You'll be the prince. Or the Snow White. Not sure yet." He winked mischievously. "We'll win if you're on stage. Definitely."
And with that, he popped open his umbrella, twirled it lightly, and walked off into the rain like a cheerful little villain.
Kun just stood there, mouth slightly agape.
Him? Snow White?!
Surely Ichiko was joking. Surely this was some long-form prank. But—
Kun's cheeks suddenly burned red.
He covered his face with both hands, grumbling. "He's gotta be joking. He has to be…"
A faint rustle behind him.
The sound of something wet and dark dragging across the ground.
Before Kun could turn—
A hand gripped his wrist.
Cold. Tight. Possessive.
"Wha—?!" He gasped.
Then the world twisted.
The air cracked.
And he was no longer on the ground.
The rooftop wind howled around them.
Kun dangled above the edge, five stories up, legs swinging helplessly. Only Sai's hand gripped his wrist, keeping him from falling. The sky spun behind his eyes. Below—concrete. Distant. Unforgiving.
Kun's breath shattered in his throat.
"S—Sai?!"
The boy holding him stood like a statue, his eyes dark and unreadable, hair dripping with rain. He didn't even look tired.
He looked angry.
"How dare you," Sai whispered, his voice as sharp as broken glass. "You laughed. With someone else."
Kun's mind reeled. "What—what are you talking about?! Let me back up—!"
Sai didn't move. His grip only tightened.
"I saw you," he said. "You smiled at him."
Kun's heart slammed against his ribs. "Sai—please. This isn't funny. You're scaring me—!"
"Why does it always have to be someone else?" Sai whispered. "Why is it never enough for you to just look at me?"
"I wasn't—!" Kun cried. "He's just a classmate! It wasn't anything!"
But Sai didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Didn't move except to tilt his head, the way a predator might when it's deciding if its prey is worth killing.
"You're letting me go," Sai said quietly. "So easily. Like I don't matter."
His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with grief so sharp it turned violent.
"You do matter! I never said you didn't—!"
"You don't need to," Sai whispered. "You keep proving it."
Kun tried to reach the edge, his foot scraping uselessly at the rain-slick surface. "Please—please don't let go. Sai—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"You always say that."
Something shimmered behind Sai's eyes. A gleam like sorrow. Or maybe it was something else.
Hunger.
And then, as if torn from the air, Sai hissed softly, "You're so gullible, Kun. That's why people keep hurting you."
"Then don't be one of them!" Kun shouted.
The wind roared.
For a terrifying second, Sai's grip loosened.
Kun screamed.
But he didn't fall.
Sai yanked him back suddenly, forcefully, slamming him onto the rooftop. Kun's back hit the concrete hard. He gasped, coughing, lungs raw with fear and rain.
Sai stood above him, trembling. Not from cold. From something deeper. A storm inside.
Kun stared up at him, chest heaving. "What do you want from me?"
Sai knelt beside him. His hand—now gentle—brushed Kun's rain-soaked hair from his eyes.
His voice, a whisper.
"I just want you to stay mine."
And with that—
He vanished.
Gone.
Like smoke in the rain.
Kun stayed there, alone on the rooftop, staring at the sky.
The clouds wept silently above him.
And he didn't move.
Not even when his mother's voice echoed from below, calling his name.
He could still feel Sai's hand on his wrist.
Still feel the edge beneath his feet.
Still hear the question he didn't know how to answer.
Why is it never enough... to just look at me?