While eating the onigiri from the convenience store, Takumi sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against the bed and checked on Hiroto periodically as he sat in front of the window. The two of them didn't speak to each other much. Takumi was an awful communicator; however, he had mastered the art of remaining in one place, and Hiroto had learned over the past two years that remaining in one place is far more valuable than most kinds of communication.
"Whatever it is," Takumi said finally, "you're not handling it alone. Okay? I don't care what it is."
Hiroto nodded.
The rain was falling from the sky. He looked at the rain as it fell in long and irregular lines down the glass. He attempted to organise his thoughts about the girl, the yellow dress that was so dry and yellow, and the droplet of water that slowly spiralled down from where she had been standing.
The driver couldn't see her. Only I could.
Which means either she wasn't real, or I'm the only one who can see what she is.
He didn't know which possibility frightened him more.
Takumi said something else, something warm and offhand that Hiroto didn't fully catch. He nodded again. He was still watching the rain.
And then —
just for a second —
it slowed.
Only part of it was gone; there was still glass in the bottom left corner of the window where a thin stream had been visible. The stream had curled slightly away from the edge of the window before coming to a complete stop, implying that there was something holding it in place outside the window similar to how you might hold a thought until you have made up your mind about saying it.
Hiroto said nothing.
He kept watching.