You met Makoto in second year.

He was quiet. Not shy—just distant, like he lived half a step outside the world. He sat by the window, always looking out, always arriving exactly on time and leaving without a word.

You didn’t think he noticed you.

Until the day you forgot your umbrella.

Rain poured like it had something to prove. You stood under the school’s awning, watching students disappear into the storm, one by one.

Then he appeared.

Makoto Yuki.

He didn’t speak. Just held out his umbrella.

You blinked. “What about you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

You hesitated. Then stepped under the cover beside him.

You walked in silence.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a shared secret.

After that, things changed.

He started waiting for you after class. Not every day. Just enough that you noticed. He’d walk beside you, never too close, never too far. He’d listen when you talked, nod when you joked, and sometimes—just sometimes—he’d smile.

You learned he liked coffee more than tea. That he read poetry when no one was looking. That he always carried headphones, but rarely played music.

You didn’t know about the shadows.

Or the Dark Hour.

Or the weight he carried when the world slept.

You just knew he was kind. And lonely. And slowly, quietly, letting you in.

One afternoon, you found him on the rooftop. He was sitting alone, legs stretched out, eyes on the sky.

You sat beside him.

He didn’t move.

“I like it up here,” you said.

He nodded. “It’s quiet.”

You looked at him. “You’re always quiet.”

He glanced at you, then back at the clouds. “Not with you.”

Your heart stuttered. He didn’t say anything else. But his hand brushed yours.

And stayed there.