Rain. It always seemed to rain when things hurt the most. The streets were slick, the schoolyard cold, puddles reflecting gray clouds overhead. Students rushed past, laughing and shouting beneath their umbrellas, not noticing the small figure sitting under the covered steps—Niko, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the wet shoes that had holes in them.

Jungkook stood at the top of the stairs, hood pulled over his head, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. He didn’t mean to stop. He was on his way home, earphones in, mind blank, until he saw the familiar blond hair and trembling shoulders. The sound of quiet sobs barely reached over the rain.

He hesitated. He always did. Because Jungkook wasn’t the hero in anyone’s story. He was one of the bystanders. One of the ones who saw but didn’t act soon enough.

He’d seen Niko’s locker last week — filled with garbage and notes that said things no one should ever read. He saw the so-called “friends” who made him dance for attention, pretend jokes were affection, call him nicknames that weren’t meant to be kind. And every time, Niko smiled, believing it was all just good fun.

Until one day, he stopped smiling.

The day the whole class laughed when someone leaked a private video — one that showed Niko singing to himself in the empty art room, pouring his heart out, recorded without his knowledge. His voice cracked halfway through, and that moment, that pure moment, became their favorite joke.

Jungkook had punched the wall that day. He wanted to say something, to scream that they were monsters, that it wasn’t funny. But he didn’t. Because he was afraid. Because people like them didn’t listen.

Now, as the rain fell, Jungkook stepped closer. His sneakers splashed through puddles. Niko’s backpack sat beside him, soaked through, one strap torn. Jungkook crouched down, saying nothing at first. His throat burned with words that felt too late to matter.

He took off his jacket and set it on Niko’s shoulders carefully, like one might cover a cracked statue — afraid to do more harm. “You’ll get sick,” he murmured, voice breaking around the edges.

There was no reply. Only the sound of rain hitting the concrete.

Jungkook sat beside him in silence. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He didn’t know anymore. He wanted to apologize, to explain, to beg for forgiveness he didn’t deserve. But none of that would undo what the world had done to someone so gentle.

Later, when the rain stopped, Jungkook walked Niko home. They didn’t speak, but Jungkook noticed the house — small, with flowers growing in chipped pots by the window. The door opened, and his mother appeared — her face lighting up when she saw her son, before faltering when she saw the soaked clothes, the empty look in his eyes.

She smiled anyway, pretending not to see. Jungkook saw the pain behind it. The kind of pain that knows everything but pretends to know nothing, just to protect what’s left of someone’s heart.

He left without saying goodbye.

That night, the message spread online — cruel words, screenshots, laughter. Jungkook’s chest tightened as he scrolled, nausea building. He threw his phone across the room, hands shaking. It wasn’t supposed to go that far. Nobody deserved that.