Just a simple oneshot while I was enjoying the rain.
Cold, heavy rain falls from the sky, as if the city itself is crying.
Big, heavy splashes against the pavement.
You run. No umbrella, nothing between you and the downpour except the leather briefcase held uselessly over your head.
Clothes soaked through. Hair damp and dripping. Glasses fogged, covered in droplets.
You make your way to a bus stop. Finally, some cover.
A temporary pause from the rain. A chance to catch your breath.
Not the best way to start a morning.
You wipe droplets from your jacket, a hopeless effort against what's already been done.
That's when you spot her. Also soaked, though only up to her shoes. She sits on the bench, umbrella resting beside her, still dripping. Her eyes are closed, her head gently pressed against the bus stop wall. Hands folded together in her lap, trying to keep them warm.
She looks calm. Almost like she's enjoying the moment.
The rain falls heavier. You stand near the edge of the awning.
Your eyes flick down to your watch.
Nine-fifty. Interview's at ten. Downtown.
The bus is late. Of course it is.
"You should sit."
The soft voice catches you off guard. You blink. "Sorry?"
"You should sit." She says it again, unhurried. She moves the wet umbrella off the bench and sets it on the ground, then pats the seat beside her.
"Not exactly the time to relax. I have an interview to catch."
"Not in this downpour, you won't." She shifts slightly, presses her head back against the wall. "And the bus doesn't seem to be arriving soon anyway."
You glance at your watch. 9:56.
You let out a sigh.
Maybe she's right. Pacing around isn't going to just magically summon the bus.
Reluctantly, you sit beside her.
"Guess being late and soaked beats being late, sore, and soaked," you mutter, a weak attempt at a joke.
A small smile curves at the corner of her lips, eyes still closed. "You'll dry. Eventually."
"I have an interview too," she adds, her voice soft. "Doesn't look like I'm making it either." One eye opens, just slightly, a quiet way of saying you're not alone in this.
You huff out a breath. Half a laugh, half a sigh.
"Glad I'm not the only one." You lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands pressed together, more out of habit than warmth, since you're soaked through anyway.
The rain hammers the awning above you.
The city feels muted. Like time is giving both of you a small break.
A curiosity fills your head. You glance at her again, studying the calm in her features, until you realize you've been staring a beat too long.
"You're staring." Eyes still closed.
"You have an interview," you say quickly, "and you're completely calm. How?"
She doesn't answer right away. A faint smile crosses her lips.
"It's not that I'm calm," she says finally. "It's that I've already accepted I'm not going to make it."
"How so?"
Her eyes open slowly, settling on a puddle rippling under the rain. "Part of it is my fault." A quiet chuckle. "Woke up late."
"Rough night?"
"Two bottles of soju," she says, and the smile that follows is not quite proud, but honest.
A beat passes.
"You can't really blame the rain," she murmurs. "It doesn't keep a schedule like we do." Her tone drifts, almost sleepy. "It rains whether we want it to or not."
Silence for a moment. Just the sound of water hitting pavement.
"In moments like these," she continues, her voice barely above the rain, "we should pause. Take a breath."
She rubs her hands slowly, fingers curling against the cold, pressing one palm over the back of the other, shifting between them, warming what little she can.
Her words settle in you somewhere quiet.
Lately, you haven't stopped moving. Freshly out of college at twenty-two, no clear direction, hopping from one part-time job to the next, earning just enough to stay afloat, doing your best not to add to the weight your parents were already carrying. Unpaid bills. Mounting debts. None of that was yours to fix, but you'd been trying anyway, in the only way you knew how: by keeping busy. By not stopping long enough to feel how tired you were.
Then the interview came up. A real company. A real shot.
And now you're sitting soaked at a bus stop, watching the minutes tick past.
You stare at the puddle just beyond the awning's reach. Ripples spread across its surface with every drop.
"I've been so focused on keeping this small boat of mine together," you say, voice low. "I didn't even notice it was already sinking."
She looks over at you. "I used to think I could handle everything on my own too." A small shrug. "Turns out even that gets exhausting."
The rain begins to ease.
No longer a downpour, just a light drizzle, tapping quietly against the awning.
You both notice it at the same time.
"But—"
Her voice breaks the quiet. She rises slowly from the bench, standing beside you now.
"Even those who've struggled," she says,
"...will be rewarded."
She turns toward you. With steady hands, she offers a small piece of paper.
"Eventually."
You eye it for a second.
"It's not going to kill you," she says, a playful grin breaking through. She flicks it toward you.
You take it.
Flip it over.
An address. A time.
"I'll be waiting," she says, slipping one hand into her pocket, the other wrapping around her umbrella.
A bus pulls into view, headlights cutting through the mist.
Her bus.
As she starts toward the doors, you call out.
"I haven't had the chance to ask your name."
She pauses. Glances back.
"May I?" Your voice steady, but gentle.
She smiles.
"Aeri. Uchinaga Aeri."
Your own name leaves your lips without thinking.
"Y/N."
Her smile softens at that.
Then she steps onto the bus, finds her seat near the back, and turns to look at you one last time through the window.
You nod.
She holds your gaze for a moment, then the bus pulls away, and the mist swallows it whole.
You stay there a little while longer. The rain has nearly stopped. The city sounds are coming back, traffic, distant voices, the drip of water from the awning's edge.
You look down at the paper in your hand.
An address. A time.
A small, quiet thing, but it sits differently in your chest than the worry has been sitting. Lighter. Like something that belongs to the future instead of the weight of right now.
You fold it carefully and slip it into your pocket.
The next bus comes.
And this time, you get on.
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