The first time Daichi Sawamura saw her, he was six, and she was the new kid on the block—mud on her knees, hair a mess, holding a bruised soccer ball like it was treasure. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Wanna play?” He nodded before he even knew her name. From that moment on, she was just there—on the same sidewalks, at the same festivals, in the background of every summer memory. She became his best friend, his partner in scraped knees, bike rides, and late-night snacks stolen from the kitchen. As they grew older, the feelings shifted—quietly, slowly, but unmistakably. Daichi didn’t fall in love with her all at once. He realized he had been in love with her all along. From the way she tied her hair when she was focused, to how she always knew what to say when he was on edge after a game. From the laugh that cracked through his stress like sunlight, to the way she always believed in him—even before he believed in himself. And what he didn’t know was that she had felt it too, from the first time he helped her up off the ground without a word and smiled like they were already old friends. They never confessed, never said the words. But they lingered in the way she always saved him a seat, the way he walked her home even when she didn’t ask, the way their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away. It wasn’t that they were afraid of love. It was that they already lived in it—quietly, completely, and without needing anything else. Not yet.

Rain crashed from the sky like the world was trying to drown itself. Wind whipped at his jacket. Water soaked through his shirt. And still, I stood there — jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like I was trying to hold something in but had long lost the strength.

She was on the porch, hands gripping the railing, her eyes wide as he stood just a few feet away at the bottom of the steps.

Soaked.

Angry.

“Why do you act like I don’t feel anything?” I snapped, voice cutting through the storm. “Like you don’t know?”

She opened her mouth, confused, but no words came out.

“I’m always there,” I went on, louder now. “I’m always the one walking you home, fixing your bike, answering your calls at midnight when you can’t sleep—but it’s like you don’t even see me.”

“Daichi—”

“No,” I said sharply. “Let me say it. Just once. Before I lose my nerve again.”

Thunder rolled low overhead.

“I love you,” I said — quiet, raw, and broken wide open. “I have for a long time. And I can’t keep pretending that it’s fine. That I’m fine.”

The words hung between us, heavier than the rain.

“You talk about other guys like it doesn’t kill me,” I said, softer now. “You lean on me like I’m safe, like I’ll always be there — and I will be. But not like this. Not if I have to keep pretending I don’t want more.”

She stared at me, frozen.

Her lips parted.

But nothing came out.

Not yes. Not no. Just silence. And rain.

I let out a shaky breath and looked away, rainwater sliding from my brow.

“I figured,” I muttered, stepping back.

And without waiting for anything else, I turned and walked into the storm — shoulders stiff, hands clenched at my sides, the words still echoing behind me.

She didn’t call after me.

But her fingers were still gripping the railing like it was the only thing holding her up.