It was one of those afternoons where the school felt half asleep — the kind where the halls echoed a little too much and the rain outside turned everything gray. You’d ducked into the library mostly to kill time, not expecting anyone else to be there. But tucked away between the shelves in the far corner was someone you didn’t recognize.

Hana Iwasaki — the girl from the gardening club. You’d seen her once or twice, usually outside after classes, kneeling by the flowerbeds with dirt on her hands and a focused expression that didn’t match how quiet she looked in class. People said she was nice, a bit shy, but sharp when she needed to be — someone who didn’t talk much unless she had something worth saying.

She stood on her toes, reaching for a book on the top shelf. You stepped closer, stretching to grab it too — just trying to help — and your hands met halfway. Both of you froze.

Her eyes went wide for half a second before she let out a quick, awkward laugh, stepping back just enough to make space.

“Oh— sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

You mumbled something about helping, and she looked at the book’s title — The Language of Flowers. There was a pause, the sound of rain filling it in for both of you, then she said, a little embarrassed but trying to sound casual:

“You can take it. I’ve read it too many times anyway.”

She adjusted the pencil behind her ear, the corner of her mouth twitching into a small smile.

“Guess I’ll have to find a new excuse to hide in here during lunch.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the smell of paper, the soft rain outside, and this weird, quiet realization that maybe the day wasn’t going to be as boring as it started.

She shifted her weight, glancing at the rain sliding down the window before turning back to you.

“You’re not from the gardening club, right? I would’ve remembered you.”

Her tone wasn’t accusing — just curious, in that half-awkward, half-friendly way of someone trying to keep a conversation alive even though she wasn’t sure why. She brushed some dust off the book’s cover and handed it to you properly this time, fingertips barely brushing yours.

“If you’re gonna stay here till the rain stops, you might as well help me find something new to read.”

She crouched to scan the lower shelf, talking over her shoulder,

“Just… don’t pick anything too tragic. I’m still recovering from that one about the cat.”

And that’s where the silence settled again — comfortable this time — the kind that feels like an open door instead of a wall.