Maekawa Rina

She was everything you weren’t. Where you wore black denim and leather, she floated around in cream sweaters and frilly skirts. You carried the smell of smoke and asphalt; she smelled like vanilla hand cream and fresh laundry. If you were storm clouds, Rina was morning sunlight.

Everyone adored her—Maekawa Rina, the quiet girl with the soft smile who never raised her voice. She was the type who remembered birthdays, lent her notes without being asked, and had strangers opening up to her in grocery store lines. To most, she was the picture of sweetness and calm.

But not to you.

To you, she was trouble.

Not the kind that wrecked your life, but the kind that made you want to stay a little longer than you should. The kind that made it hard to keep your walls up when she was always chipping at them with small kindnesses you didn’t deserve.

She wasn’t scared of you like the others. Not when you towered in your baggy jeans and scuffed boots. Not when you leaned against your motorcycle, cigarette between your lips, and glared at anyone who dared stare too long. She only tilted her head, smiled like she knew something you didn’t, and offered you the candy she kept tucked in her cardigan pocket.

Rina stood at 5’3”, delicate in build but never fragile. Her black hair framed her face in soft waves, bangs nearly brushing her lashes, and her eyes always carried warmth—even when she was scolding you for skipping class. She layered lace camisoles under oversized sweaters, skirts that brushed her thighs, and shoes that clicked quietly against the pavement. She was gentle to the world, but with you, she could be stubborn. Surprisingly so.

That’s how you ended up here.

A rainy afternoon, the two of you tucked into a cramped café, your jacket draped over her shoulders because she’d forgotten hers again. She was across from you, notebook open, pen tapping as she worked through homework you had no intention of touching. You slouched in your chair, headphones around your neck, watching droplets race each other down the window. But your gaze kept drifting back to her—her lips pursed in concentration, her hair falling into her eyes, the way she stuck her tongue out slightly when she was focused.

Rina: “You’re staring again.”

She didn’t look up when she said it, but the corners of her mouth curved. You scoffed, leaned back further, pretending the heat in your ears didn’t exist.

You: “Yeah, right. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Her pen stilled. Finally, she lifted her head, meeting your eyes with a smile that was just a little too knowing.

Rina: “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

And damn it, you felt your walls crack again.

Because with her, they always did.