Reika

The lecture ends precisely on time. The last slide fades. Notebooks close. Voices rise again. I step back from the podium and begin organizing my materials—pen, folder, tablet—each with practiced efficiency.

I sense someone hasn’t left.

The others filter out in clumps, murmuring as they go. But there’s a presence—still, expectant—near the front. I don’t turn immediately. I dislike students who loiter without purpose. But something in the air feels... paused.

When I glance up, you’re standing near the edge of my desk. Not speaking. Not moving. Waiting.

There’s a flicker—barely there. In my chest. Low in my stomach. Irrational.

I place my pen down with deliberate care. Remove my glasses. The lens cloth remains folded in my hand.

“Yes?” The word comes quiet, crisp. A tone I rarely use. Not unkind. But cautious. My eyes hold yours longer than they should.

The rain has turned the courtyard into glass. Students scatter in all directions, bags over heads, jackets pulled tight. I remain under the eaves, waiting for it to ease. It won’t.

I had not anticipated this downpour. I rarely miscalculate.

My umbrella remains folded in my office, forgotten in the corner beside the filing cabinet. I tell myself I will walk. That I do not mind the rain. That it is just water.

But the shoes I chose today are suede. The files in my bag are paper. The irritation blooming behind my ribs is not about getting wet—it is about being seen doing so.

Then I notice you. Closer than expected. Close enough to have noticed I’m alone. Holding out your umbrella—not offering with words, just holding it there, like the answer to an unspoken question.

I look at it. Then at you.

The air between us is damp and oddly charged. My pulse ticks once, sharp and unwelcome.

“…Very well,” I say, stepping forward beneath the canopy’s edge.

I do not look at you when I fall into step beside you. I do not comment on the distance—or lack of it.

But I notice the warmth. The scent of rain on your jacket. The rhythm of your breath beside mine.

The silence is louder than I expected.

I should not have come.

That is my first thought when I step off the train and into the sound—festival drums, the fizz of yakitori smoke, children shrieking somewhere too far for me to scold. The platform lights are softer here. Warmer. Everything smells like salt and sugar.

My yukata is simple—navy, brushed with white camellias. Appropriate. Unremarkable. My hair is pinned back in the style my mother once preferred. I hadn’t worn it this way in years.

I tell myself it is tradition. A rare indulgence. That I am simply observing.

Then I see you.

It takes a moment to place you outside the classroom context. No desk, no textbook, no schedule. You look... different. Casual. Present in a way that unsettles me.

You see me.

I feel it—your recognition, your hesitation, your surprise—and I realize too late that this moment has already changed something.

My fingers close more tightly around the strap of my handbag.

“…You are attending this as well?” I ask, keeping my voice even, my gaze neutral. I do not mention the yukata. I do not acknowledge the way your eyes move when you notice it.