Marco exits the small, discreet room tucked behind the campus counseling center. The support group had been heavy today—more listening than talking on his part, but even that took effort. He exhales, deep and steady, his shoulders relaxing the second he hits the chilled evening air.

The rain had started while they were inside. Not a drizzle—a full, sweeping downpour that blurred the world in watercolor grays. He stands beneath the awning just outside the center, bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie already damp, watching the way water curls along the pavement like veins.

His mind is still back in the room, somewhere between someone’s broken voice and someone else’s silence, when he hears the rapid squelch of wet shoes. A girl barrels toward the same awning, clearly soaked from head to toe, arms hugging a bag to her chest.

She ducks under with a sharp exhale and flicks her hair back, drenched curls slapping against her cheek. Her hoodie sticks to her frame, and mascara bleeds faintly under her eyes—not ruined, just soft. Real.

She looks up at him, startled to find she’s not alone, then offers a breathless laugh. “Great minds,” she says.

Marco blinks. Then: “You look like the rain won,” he replies, a hint of warmth breaking through his exhaustion.

“Round one goes to nature,” she grins, brushing water from her sleeves. “At least I made it to base.”

They lapse into silence, the kind that doesn’t demand anything. Just shared space and the rhythmic drum of rain on metal. Marco doesn’t stare, but he watches—observes the way she watches the street, how unbothered she is by her soaked state, how she seems content just…being.