The classroom was empty when Sojo stepped out into the hall. The buzz of students, their voices rising and falling in a mix of excitement and exhaustion, felt distant to him. His body moved on autopilot, the rhythm of his steps as familiar as the sound of the rain outside.
He wasn't in any rush. After all, he had nowhere to be.
Sojo walked through the quiet streets, heading toward his grandparents' house. It wasn't far—just a few blocks away. Their house was old, but well-kept. A small, cozy space, always filled with the familiar smells of incense and the soft rustling of paper sliding doors. It was a place where Sojo felt grounded, even if the absence of his parents left a certain emptiness that lingered in the air.
His grandmother, a kind but no-nonsense woman, was always around the house, making sure everything was in its place. She often told Sojo that the house was full of memories, and while he didn't necessarily understand the weight of that at his age, he could always feel it when he walked through the front door.
His grandfather, on the other hand, was a quieter man. He rarely said much, preferring the company of his bonsai trees and newspapers. Sojo had grown used to the silence between them—his grandfather's way of showing affection through quiet gestures instead of words.
When Sojo got home, his grandmother was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The smell of simmering vegetables filled the air, the warmth of the stove a comforting presence.
"How was school today?" she asked, not looking up from her chopping board.
"Same as usual," Sojo replied, slipping off his shoes by the door. He didn't say much more. He didn't need to. His grandmother always knew when he was lost in his thoughts, when something was bothering him. But she also knew not to push him if he wasn't ready to talk.
He walked past the kitchen, heading for his room at the back of the house. His grandfather sat in his usual chair, absorbed in his newspaper. Sojo gave him a small nod, which his grandfather returned with a faint smile. The exchange was brief, but it was enough.
In his room, Sojo sat down at his desk, pulling out his textbooks. But his mind wasn't on studying. He couldn't shake the feeling from earlier in class—the way Yoshina had looked at him when he asked her about the rain. There was something she wasn't saying, something more behind that distant gaze.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, allowing the silence of his room to wash over him.
His thoughts kept drifting back to her, the tension he had felt, the way she had withdrawn even more into herself. Yoshina didn't let anyone get close, but Sojo was starting to wonder if there was more to her silence than just her usual detachment.
The rain continued to fall outside, its steady rhythm matching the quiet that surrounded him. Sojo's eyes flickered toward the window, but his thoughts were far from the peaceful scene outside. There was something about Yoshina—something that didn't add up.
Maybe I'm overthinking it.
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Meanwhile, across town, Yoshina sat in her room, the faint light of the afternoon filtering through the curtains. Her room was almost as empty as Sojo's—spare, simple, with only a few bookshelves lining the walls and a desk cluttered with loose papers. There was nothing here that seemed to define her, just the bare essentials for living.
Her mother had long since passed away, and her father was rarely home. Work consumed him—at least, that was the excuse he always gave. Yoshina had learned not to ask too many questions. She used to wonder why her father didn't care enough to be home, to spend time with her. But now, she just accepted it.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the clock. It was nearly time for dinner, but she didn't feel like going downstairs. Not tonight.
Her father would be late anyway. He always was.
Yoshina's eyes drifted toward the window, the rain outside casting shadows across the room. It was peaceful, yes, but there was also an undercurrent of something else—something that had been gnawing at her for a while now.
She didn't want to think about it. The thoughts that rose in her mind were too heavy, too real. They made her feel like she was suffocating in a space that should have felt safe.
So she closed her eyes and tried to silence everything—her thoughts, her emotions, the emptiness that surrounded her.
She wanted to believe that it was okay to be alone. But sometimes, it wasn't.
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Back at Sojo's grandparents' house, the clock ticked steadily, marking the passage of time in a way that felt too deliberate. Sojo was still at his desk, still staring at his textbooks, but his mind wasn't on the words in front of him.
His grandfather's footsteps creaked down the hall, a reminder that life continued around him. Sojo didn't mind. The house was quiet, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was home, after all.
As his grandfather entered the room, Sojo didn't look up. Instead, he watched as his grandfather sat down in his usual spot, a small sigh escaping from his lips. The old man had been through a lot, but he rarely shared his burdens. Still, Sojo could see the weariness in his eyes.
"Dinner is ready," his grandmother called from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the silence.
Sojo stood up, stretching slightly, before moving toward the dining room. As always, the meal was simple but hearty, a reflection of the quiet, steady rhythm of life in his grandparents' home. He could feel their presence, the way they always took care of him in their own quiet way.
But even as he ate, his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts lingering on Yoshina and the subtle distance between them.
It was a quiet night, but the stillness felt different. It wasn't just the rain. It wasn't just his solitude. There was something more.