Rain fell like a whisper that afternoon—
not angry, not wild.
Just soft. Steady. Constant.
The kind of rain that didn't interrupt conversations.
It accompanied them.
Down in the city, umbrellas opened like blossoms.
Red. Yellow. Transparent.
Some patterned. Some plain.
All moving like petals caught in the rhythm of puddle-splash footsteps and bus horns echoing through distant alleyways.
Shops played mellow music under glowing awnings.
Steam curled from street food carts.
People ducked into cafés with smiles and wet sleeves.
But above it all, high above Jinju High—
On the rooftop—
The world stood still.
Saanvi stood just beneath the stairwell roof, arms folded across her chest.
Her sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands.
She stared out at the rooftop's cracked, empty concrete being painted darker with every passing second of rain.
There was no Jisoo.
No sound of wheels echoing.
No low chuckle.
No familiar figure leaning against the rails.
Just her.
And the soft tapping of raindrops against the metal banister.
And the memory that refused to fade.
---
Busan.
Ten years ago.
A spring afternoon exactly like this.
Rain had surprised her that day—falling fast just as she stepped out of her favorite secondhand bookstore.
She hadn't brought a coat. Hadn't even checked the sky.
She remembered hugging her books close to her chest, blinking up at the clouds like they'd betrayed her.
And then—
He was there.
A boy her age, standing a little awkwardly under a cheap blue umbrella.
He had shaggy bangs. A scraped knee. Oversized shoes.
His backpack looked heavier than him.
He didn't know her.
Had never spoken to her before.
But still—
He held the umbrella out, arm shaking slightly.
"You'll catch a cold," he said, voice soft and unsure.
She blinked.
Shivered.
But didn't move.
"I don't mind," she replied.
He didn't move either.
The rain kept falling.
Eventually, he stepped closer.
Held the umbrella a little higher.
And walked her home.
They hadn't spoken much. Maybe five sentences total.
But beneath that shared cover,
with the rain falling around them and nowhere else to be,
it had felt like they had known each other for years.
Something unspoken had begun there.
Something quiet.
Something fragile.
Something that, apparently,
never left.
---
A flash of motion broke the memory.
Soft footsteps on wet concrete behind her.
The sound of sneakers damp from rain.
She turned.
Jisoo.
Emerging from the stairwell, shaking out an umbrella—blue, slightly bent at the tip.
It looked just like the one from ten years ago.
For a heartbeat, she wondered—
Could it be the same one?
Had he… kept it?
He met her eyes.
Didn't smile.
Didn't look away.
Just shifted his gaze to the rain—
then back to her.
"No board today," he said, casually.
"Wet wheels kill confidence."
Saanvi smiled despite herself.
"I was hoping you'd say something dramatic like 'the rain hides my pain.'"
That earned a laugh.
Soft.
Real.
"No," he said. "I just don't want to fall and eat cement."
She chuckled. "Reasonable."
---
They stood side by side beneath the stairwell roof.
Close, but not touching.
The rain fell harder now—richer somehow, as if the sky had decided to speak a little louder.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence was comfortable, like a jacket worn enough times to fit just right.
Then, without a word,
he extended the umbrella toward her.
"Walk down with me?" he asked, eyes still on the falling rain.
She looked at him—really looked.
His profile. The way his thumb traced a small nick on the umbrella's handle.
The way he didn't wait for her to answer, because he somehow already knew.
She nodded.
Stepped forward.
And he opened the umbrella above them both.
---
It was too narrow for two.
Of course it was.
Each step down the rooftop stairs made their shoulders press closer together.
When the wind blew, she felt his elbow tighten, subtly adjusting the angle to shield her better.
She noticed how carefully he walked.
Measured steps.
Like he'd memorized the rhythm of walking beside her in the rain.
Neither of them spoke.
Not really.
But the silence wasn't empty. It was full—of all the things neither of them knew how to say aloud.
Until—
they crossed the courtyard.
Slower than usual. Not quite ready to leave the rain behind.
And then—quietly, almost afraid of the answer—
She whispered:
"Do you think we'd still be friends if I had stayed in Busan?"
Jisoo didn't answer at first.
The question hung there, suspended like a droplet on the edge of a leaf.
Finally—
"No."
She blinked.
Looked up, surprised.
He stopped walking.
Turned to her fully.
Rain tapped steadily on the umbrella above them.
The world around them softened, blurred into gray.
"We wouldn't be friends," he said simply.
Then added, as if it were the most obvious truth:
"We would've been something else."
---
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know what to say.
Didn't know how to say anything.
But he turned again—casually, comfortably—and kept walking as if he hadn't just turned her world into a skip of heartbeats.
"Just saying," he added with a shrug,
"You were the only person who ever made me forget I hated talking."
---
That night, long after the rain had stopped
and the sidewalks were clean again
and the clouds had drifted off into another city—
Her phone buzzed.
The screen glowed in the dark of her room.
____________•••____________
One Plus Notification
You are one plus away from saying what should've been said ten years ago.
____________•••____________
Saanvi stared at it.
Fingers hovering above the keyboard.
She didn't type anything.
Not yet.
Instead, she opened her window.
Leaned out a little.
Felt the night breeze on her skin.
And wondered—
if maybe the words had never needed to be said out loud.
Maybe they were already there.
Between raindrops.
Between silences.
Between the touch of shoulders under one umbrella too small for two.