Close Enough to Hear

The soft echo of Ayumi's words lingered with Kaito long after their conversation under the covered walkway ended.

I want to understand you. Always.

It wasn't just her hands that had spoken — it was the gentle weight of her gaze, the quiet warmth that filled the air between them. That simple promise, shared without grand gestures or dramatic speeches, meant more to him than any words ever could. And though his hands still stumbled through sentences and his fingers often fumbled signs, her patience made every mistake worth it.

The next day brought heavy rain, a slow and steady downpour that darkened the sky long before afternoon fell. Students huddled under umbrellas as they hurried from school, avoiding puddles and gusts of wind. Kaito stood by the entrance, his own umbrella tilted slightly to the side as he waited.

Ayumi appeared just moments later, her camera bag slung across her chest, a compact clear umbrella shielding her from the worst of the rain. Her smile was small but present — the kind of smile Kaito had started to treasure.

Let's walk together, Kaito signed, his movements careful.

Ayumi's nod was immediate, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. She fell into step beside him, the rain filling the silence between them with soft percussion.

---

Their steps were unhurried, their usual quietness magnified by the weather. Kaito found himself stealing glances at Ayumi — at the way her eyes flickered between the wet pavement and the cloudy sky, at the way her fingers occasionally reached out to capture droplets on her palm, her photographer's instincts never quite resting.

Even in silence, she seemed to be listening — not with her ears, but with everything else.

Without thinking, Kaito shifted his umbrella, angling it slightly to cover both of them. The movement brought him closer, close enough that their arms brushed. Ayumi looked up in surprise, her clear umbrella now redundant.

Kaito hesitated for a moment, then offered her his jacket, shrugging it off with an awkward smile. His sleeves were slightly too long for him, and they would definitely swallow Ayumi whole, but the gesture was instinctive.

Ayumi's brow furrowed in gentle confusion, her fingers signing a quick Why?

Kaito hesitated before replying, his hands unsure but his meaning clear. You're cold. You don't have to take it, but… if you want to.

There was a moment's pause, rain tapping softly around them, before Ayumi reached out — her fingers closing around the edge of his sleeve, not to take the jacket, but just to hold.

The touch was so light, so brief, that Kaito almost convinced himself it hadn't happened. But the warmth lingered, spreading up his arm, settling somewhere deep in his chest. He didn't move away, didn't pull back. Neither did she.

They walked like that — side by side, their arms barely touching, Ayumi's hand resting just lightly enough to feel the fabric of his sleeve beneath her fingertips.

---

Neither of them spoke, not with words or with hands. There was no need. The rain spoke for them, a steady rhythm that filled the air without demanding attention. It was a language of its own — a quiet, constant presence, like the comfort they were finding in each other.

Kaito didn't know how long they walked like that — how many steps passed with that quiet touch connecting them. All he knew was that it felt fragile and fleeting, like a thread of silk stretched between them. One wrong move, one careless word, could snap it. But Ayumi's fingers didn't let go, and neither did he.

At the next corner, they paused beneath the overhang of a closed shop, sheltered from the heaviest part of the downpour. Ayumi let go then, only to shake the water from her umbrella, her fingers slick with rain. Kaito stood awkwardly beside her, his heart pounding in his ears.

It wasn't as though they hadn't touched before — passing brushes of hands when exchanging notebooks, the fleeting grip of fingers when Ayumi lost her balance during one of their photography walks. But this was different. This was intentional. This was a choice.

Thank you, Ayumi signed, her fingers slower than usual.

Kaito's response was just as clumsy. For what?

She hesitated, her hands hovering between words before finally settling on a single sign. Warm.

His ears burned, but he didn't look away.

---

The rain began to ease, softening into a gentle drizzle. Ayumi took a step back onto the sidewalk, her clear umbrella catching the dim light, turning every droplet into a tiny prism. Kaito followed, falling into step beside her once more.

This time, Ayumi's hand didn't reach for his sleeve. But her shoulder brushed his, and she stayed close enough that her warmth lingered, even without touch.

They didn't talk about it. Neither of them was ready to name the quiet thing growing between them — the thing made of silence and rain and gentle hands.

But Kaito was starting to understand something important — something Ayumi had known all along.

Sometimes, you don't need to hear someone to know they're there.

Sometimes, being close enough to feel their presence — to feel their warmth beside you — is its own kind of conversation.

And sometimes, even in the quiet, even in the spaces between words, you can hear someone's heart speaking to yours.

---

By the time they reached Ayumi's gate, the rain had almost stopped. Ayumi paused, turning to face him, her eyes bright despite the gray sky.

See you tomorrow? Kaito signed, the words simple but hopeful.

Ayumi smiled — the kind of smile that reached all the way to her eyes.

Tomorrow.

And for the first time, Kaito didn't just understand the sign — he felt it.

Tomorrow wasn't just a day. It was a promise.

A promise that this — whatever this was — wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

---

To Be Continue