Chapter 2: Raindrops and Revelations

Ren couldn’t stop thinking about the letters.

They weren’t just words anymore. They felt like echoes of someone’s soul—someone kind, observant, maybe a little lonely. Someone who saw the world the way he did… quietly, deeply, and in passing details.

That Friday, he returned to the bookstore once more. The owner gave him a drowsy nod as he wandered toward the classics section. His hands moved slower now, eyes scanning not just for titles, but for clues.

Then he found it.



Inside a worn copy of Wuthering Heights, between chapter five and six.

Another letter.

 “If I could be brave for just one moment… I’d tell you that it’s you. I write these because I don’t know how to speak them. I leave them here hoping someone—maybe you—will read them and understand.”

Ren’s heart skipped.

It was meant for someone. Not just anyone. Maybe… him?

The idea was terrifying. And thrilling.

But it left a question burning at the back of his mind: who was writing them?

In class, Yuna sat like always—quiet, composed, never quite there. Ren studied her more carefully now. The way her eyes flicked toward the window during roll call. The way she gently chewed the end of her pencil when thinking. How she walked through the hallway like she belonged to a quieter world.

He didn’t want to assume. But something in him stirred every time she looked away and the light caught her face.

He gathered his courage after class.

“Hey,” he said gently as she packed her notebook.

She turned, surprised. Her eyes—brown and soft like the edge of autumn—met his.



“Hi,” she replied, unsure.

“I—I was wondering…” Ren paused, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you ever go to Kanda’s bookstore?”

Yuna blinked. Then smiled faintly. “Sometimes. Why?”



Ren’s throat tightened.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, awkward and crooked. “It’s a nice place.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Yeah. It’s quiet.”

They stood in silence a moment longer before she nodded politely and walked away.

Ren watched her leave, a strange mix of relief and confusion churning inside him.

Later that night, he opened his journal.

Nine letters now, all pressed between pages, all written in the same elegant, uncertain handwriting.



Each one chipped away at the wall he kept around himself.

He flipped to the latest one again, tracing the final line.

“…maybe you will read them and understand.”

Understand what?

That someone was trying to reach out?

That words could be lifelines?

That maybe, just maybe, love didn’t have to begin with answers—it could begin with questions.

The next morning, there was a letter waiting for him—not in a book, but in his locker.

Neatly folded. No envelope. No signature.

“I saw you in the bookstore yesterday. I almost said hello. But I couldn’t. Not yet. Still… I think you know now. Or you’re starting to.”



Ren stared at it, his hands trembling slightly.

The letters weren’t random anymore.

They were meant for him.

Someone saw him. Not just his face, but his quietness. His wondering. His loneliness.

He pressed the note to his chest and closed his eyes.



Rain tapped softly on the windows outside.

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