Rain's POV :
There's a strange feeling in my chest.
It's the kind of feeling that builds quietly, far away, like water pressing against a dam—silent, patient and inevitable.
I can sense it coming toward me whether I'm ready or not, and the worst part is knowing that no amount of stillness will stop it.
All of this—
I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it.
Or maybe I do know.
And that's the part that makes my throat ache.
I reach for another book from the shelf, my fingers moving before my thoughts catch up. Same series. Same worn edges. Same familiar weight in my hands.
I open it with a strange mix of dread and hope curling low in my stomach.
It's there again.
Letters scrawled the way I would have written them.
Big words circled twice, aggressively.
Rs littering the margins.
Sentences crossed out and rewritten, as if he'd argued with himself.
As if he'd hesitated, worried about saying the wrong thing to someone who wasn't even there anymore.
Afraid that if he misread me—even in memory—I might turn away.
My breath stutters.
I flip the page.
More notes.
Lines underlined where I know I would have paused.
A question mark beside a paragraph I remember struggling with.
My knees give out.
I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the shelf.
The book falls open in my lap, and then another joins it.
And another.
Soon they're spread around me like evidence—like a quiet confession I never asked for.
All these years, I told myself something simple.
That it was all in my head.
That the longing, the missing, the ache—It was all mine.
Because believing he didn't care was easier than believing he cared and left anyway.
And now—
This doesn't help.
It hurts more.
Anger could be aimed.
This feels a lot like….grief.
And grief is cruelest of them all.
I don't know where to put it.
I don't know where to put this version of him—the boy who annotated my thoughts, the man who lived with my voice echoing through his head for years.
I push myself up slowly and begin placing the books back on the shelves.
One by one. Carefully.
Reverently.
My fingers linger along the spines longer than necessary, like touching them might somehow reach him.
Like paper could bridge time.
There's a strange cruelty in the stories we build about people who hurt us.
In those stories, they're untouched.
They sip tea somewhere quiet while you fall apart alone, convincing yourself that your suffering is proof of their cruelty.
But what happens when you're forced to look at the wreckage on their side too?
Why does that make me angry?
Angry because hatred would have been easier.
Angry because whatever this is—it's heavier than anger ever was.
"Rain!"
The sound of my name jolts through me.
I turn too fast, heart kicking hard against my ribs.
"Oh—" I say, breathless. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."
Danny stands in the doorway.
And for a moment, the world feels unbalanced.
His chest rises and falls too quickly.
His shoulders are tight, coiled like something inside him is straining at its leash.
His gaze flicks to the window, then back to me, like he's tracking movement I can't see.
"You okay?" he asks, trying for casual.
But his body betrays him.
"I'm good ,though you don't look okay," I say softly. "Danny?"
Something flickers across his face—relief, fear, something sharper underneath.
He closes the distance between us in two long strides and pulls me into his arms.
"I'm glad," he says, voice breaking just slightly.
"I'm glad you're good."
He holds me like he needs to anchor himself to something solid.
His arms are tight, protective, almost desperate.
"Let's eat," he adds quickly. "Yeah?"
His eyes drift again—toward the window.
Before I can follow his gaze, he reaches up and draws the blinds shut.
The sound feels final.
"I thought you were going to be gone for a while," I say gently.
His jaw tightens. I see it—the moment where he decides he can't take this conversation.
So I let it go.
He takes my hand and practically pulls me out of the library.
I stumble to keep up with his pace.
The notes.
The boy who wrote them.
The man walking beside me.
All of it tangles together until I feel frozen inside my own body, like if I move too fast, something will shatter.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter.
My forever place.
I let him have this.
Whatever this is.
He buries his face in my hair, breathing me in deeply, and something tight snaps in my throat.
I wrap my arms around him, holding him until the tension slowly drains from his body.
Until I see him again.
The boy who liked living in my head.
The man who still likes living in my head.
He stiffens at first, surprised, then melts into me.
I run my fingers through his hair—slow, familiar—and breathe him in like something known.
I don't understand what I feel.
But I see him.
And his pain—That I do understand.
"Should I cook something?" I ask softly, pulling back , forcing a smile.
He blinks. "You? And Cook?"
"I'll have you know," I say, mock-offended, "I've gotten much better."
"Rain," he says gravely,
"that's what you said before the 2013 fiasco."
I laugh.
I remember it instantly.
How badly I wanted to impress him.
How convinced I was that cooking was what girls did when they liked a boy.
Except the food—which barely qualified as food—hit the ceiling.
And then I climbed onto his shoulders to scrape it off.
Him trying so hard not to laugh.
"How about I cook for you, baby?" he says, kissing my cheek as he turns toward the stove.
The silence that follows is soft .
We keep stealing glances at each other, pretending not to notice.
It makes me blush.
Makes me feel fifteen again.
He scoops pasta into a bowl, twirls it onto a fork, blows on it, and feeds me.
With that gentle smile on his face.
And for a second, I see him clearly—the boy whose heart I wanted to live in.
So I smile my biggest smile and eat.
His phone rings, disrupting the bliss.
He answers, listens, and something sharp lands behind his eyes.
"Okay," he says. "Keep me updated."
When he hangs up, his smile returns—too quick.
"I was thinking," he says lightly, "you might want to work. You'd get bored just sitting at home."
"Danny," I say softly. "I'd love to."