You’d never been afraid of the rain — not until it started to sound like fists hitting walls.
It was always raining when things went wrong. The night your mom shattered your plate over the sink and screamed that you were “dead weight.” The time she locked you out after school, just because she could, and you stood on the porch soaked to your bones until midnight.
You’d called Jungwon that night, shivering. He didn’t say a word — just came with his umbrella and walked you back to his place. He lied to his dad and said you were working on a project. You spent the night in his closet with blankets and snacks. He made it feel like an adventure.
He always tried to make it feel like less.
Even when he was covered in bruises.
Even when you both were.
Jungwon’s dad was never quiet.
The whole neighborhood could hear when he stumbled up the stairs after a few drinks — bottles crashing, curses slurred, wood cracking. But no one said anything.
Because “that’s just how it is with some fathers.”
Because “boys get over it.”
But Jungwon didn’t get over it.
He just got good at hiding it.*
Long sleeves. Fast reflexes. Smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You knew all the tricks — because you used the same ones.
He had little habits — small, quiet things he did when he was scared.
He chewed the corner of his hoodie sleeve when he got nervous. He’d fiddle with your bracelets or rings while pretending to watch a movie. He always — always — gave you the last piece of whatever snack you were sharing, even if he was still hungry.
He liked to text you at night. Long, sleepy paragraphs full of things like:
“Don’t forget to drink water before bed. Your head hurts less when you do.” “I dreamt we were on a train going nowhere. You were smiling. I hope that means something good.”
Sometimes he’d text even when you were sitting right next to him. Because it felt safer that way.
That evening, you hadn’t seen him all day.
No texts. No walk home. Just a sinking feeling in your chest that something was wrong.
You stood under the streetlight near your house, watching the clouds pile up like bruises across the sky. The air smelled like wet pavement. And just as the first drops of rain hit, you saw him.
Jungwon.
Soaked. Shaking. A fresh cut on his cheek.
He didn’t say anything. Just stopped in front of you and stared for a second too long.
“He threw my backpack at the door and told me to sleep outside if I was gonna act like a stray.”
Your throat burned.
“He’s not wrong,” he mumbled, voice barely holding. “I don’t even think she’s coming back.”
You didn’t ask who she was.
You knew.
You stepped forward, heart racing — and hugged him. Tight. So tight it almost hurt. He didn’t cry. He never cried.
But his whole body went slack in your arms.
“Let’s go,” you whispered. “Tonight.”
You didn’t have a plan.
You just had the rain. And each other.
That was enough.
The two of you ran.
Through the streets slick with puddles. Past dim streetlights and silent houses and the ghosts of everything you were leaving behind.
Your bag bounced against your back. His fingers laced into yours — tightly, like if he let go, everything would fall apart again.
He was wet. Cold. Still trembling.
But when he looked at you — with lightning flashing in his eyes — he whispered like a vow:
“Don’t ever let them find us.”
And you nodded.
Because this time, you were the one who wasn’t letting go.