KREEZO

Aika Misora never planned to fall in love. Not with the boy who sat alone on rooftops, or the one who pressed flowers instead of speaking his pain. But some stories don’t wait to be written — they bloom in silence, in shared glances, in the weight of unsaid things.

After her mother’s quiet abandonment, Aika survives high school by keeping her heart zipped shut. Her world is routine: library lunches, hushed notebooks, and pretending everything’s fine. Until she meets Ren Hayashi, the quiet sketch-artist with rumors on his name and bruises in his smile.

He doesn’t talk much. But his silence says everything.

Drawn together by chance — and maybe fate — the two begin to orbit each other in secret places: the abandoned rooftop, the library’s back corner, the flower shop that smells like lost time. As seasons shift, so do they. Slowly. Tenderly. Terrifyingly.

But love, even the gentle kind, brings buried pain to the surface. And when a long-unopened letter from Aika’s mother resurfaces, the wounds between them deepen — not enough to break, but enough to test whether two broken hearts can really hold each other.

A soft, grief-tinged coming-of-age romance about first love, second chances, and what it means to stay — even when everything else leaves.

“I’ll Still Love You When We’re Old”

Soft at first — like the sky was whispering instead of crying. A gentle, steady rhythm tapping against the windows of Class 2-B, smudging the world outside into watercolor.

She hadn't spoken to Ren since the fight.

He hadn't skipped school. He hadn't avoided her either. But they passed each other in the halls like people who used to know each other too well and now didn't know what to do with the leftover closeness.

Like silence had turned into a bruise neither of them wanted to touch.

By lunch, the drizzle had thickened — cold and constant. Everyone complained about wet shoes and umbrellas left at home. But Aika barely noticed.

The fear was still there — sharp and familiar — but it wasn't steering her anymore.

She took the stairs two at a time, breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Ren stood near the railing, hoodie soaked through, face tilted toward the sky like he was trying to remember what it felt like to be anything but heavy.

He heard her footsteps. But he didn't turn.

She stepped closer, heart pounding, every word she rehearsed dissolving with the rain.

She stopped behind him. Close enough to feel his warmth, even through the storm.

"I'm not good at this," she said. "At feelings. At staying."

"But I don't want to keep running. Not from this. Not from you."

"I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I'm still here. And I still want—"

She stepped forward, slowly. Reached out. Her fingers found the edge of his sleeve, then his hand.

And then, without another word, she rose up on her toes, rain falling from her hair, and kissed him.

His lips were cold. But the moment was warm.

She kissed him like she was choosing him — not just once, but every time.

And he kissed her like he believed her.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads touching, breath mingled, she whispered, "I'm still scared."

She smiled through the tears she wasn't sure were hers or the sky's.

"But maybe we can be scared together."

Later, drenched and trembling and more alive than she'd felt in weeks, Aika sat on her bed in dry clothes, hair wrapped in a towel, journal open.

And he kissed me back like I was worth the ache.

Maybe it's just two people saying, I'll stay anyway.

When the Rain Fell Again