That Day, the Rain Poured Down in Torrents-3
Story by Stansman353 on SoFurry
"Senpai, don't you have an umbrella?" You spoke to me as I was looking up at the sky that had just begun to cry.
Now, I can understand how you must have felt back then. I know how deeply I must have disappointed you.
But at that time, I had no choice but to say what I did.
The next day, you didn’t show up even by lunchtime. Worried, I asked in the teacher's office and found out you were staying home because of a cold. I heard someone say, "It's always sunny when that guy's not around." Hearing that made me feel sad, so after school, using the excuse of returning your umbrella, I went to your house. You lived with your mother in an apartment two stations away, in the opposite direction from where I lived.
When I rang the intercom, your mother came out to greet me. She explained that although you said it was a cold, you hadn't come out of your room.
Even when I tried speaking to you, you wouldn’t come out of your room. Even when I apologized, you just said, “Don’t worry about it.” You added that you would definitely come to school tomorrow.
Your voice sounded as though it was rejecting everything, and I had no choice but to step back. Your mother apologized to me so many times that it made me feel guilty. On the way home, she asked me to remain your friend. She said you didn’t have any friends.
The next day, as promised, you came to school. Your voice was the same as usual, your smiling face unchanged. But something about you was different—something essential seemed to have vanished. It left an awkwardness between us.
“Take care on your way home.”
Lost in thought, I suddenly heard your voice from a short distance away. When I looked around, you were gone. Even after searching, I couldn’t find you anywhere.
Once again, you had left me behind and gone ahead.
I bought a plastic umbrella at the station’s convenience store and boarded the train heading in the opposite direction from home.
I was on my way to your house.
“Oh, my! Welcome. What brings you here?”
Your mother seemed a bit surprised to see me. She was smiling, but a sense of weariness lingered in the air. The sound of the rain was so loud it felt like it was falling right inside the house.
“I came to return the umbrella.”
I held out your umbrella. The umbrella you liked—the same vibrant orange it had been since the day we first met.
“Oh, you’re the one who came before, right? Please, come in.”
Your mother turned and walked back to the living room.
I followed her, saying, “Excuse me.”
"I’ll go brew some tea."
"That’s alright," I reply politely as I slide open the lattice door to your room.
The small Japanese-style room next to the living room still holds the study desk you’ve used since elementary school and a small family altar.
On the altar are a memorial tablet and a smiling photo of you.
I clasp my hands together in prayer toward you.
You died last winter.
It was a traffic accident.
On your way home from school, you were struck by a car while crossing an unlit pedestrian crossing.
That day, it rained heavily.
The downpour reduced visibility, and the darkness made it worse. Every car had its headlights on early. The glare from the oncoming vehicles' lights, the reflections on the wet road, and the white stripes of the crosswalk created a dizzying chaos.
As a result, the truck driver apparently didn’t notice you until it was too late.
When you were hit, you were holding an umbrella in your hand. If you had been using that orange umbrella, maybe they would have seen you. That’s what I was told, and the image of you walking with your head down in the rain, hiding your tears, flashed into my mind. You deliberately didn’t use the umbrella to conceal your emotions.
It’s my fault that you’re dead.
That day, you confessed to me.
In the cold rain, you called me to the cherry tree behind the school.
At the time, I didn’t know the rumors surrounding that tree—about how confessing under it would grant a miracle. I had no friends to share such stories with, and I was too oblivious to realize what that moment meant to you.
Under the tree, you told me you were gay.
And that you liked me—not as a friend, but as a romantic interest. Just as most boys would like girls, you had fallen for me.
You said you first noticed me at the club orientation for freshmen. I was fumbling through my speech as I stood before the first-years, towering over them but visibly nervous. When someone shouted, "We can’t hear you," I looked so shaken that it seemed like I might burst into tears.
You said you wanted to do something for me.
In that moment, you found everything about me endearing—my large frame, awkward demeanor, soft gaze, thick glasses, even my trembling voice. You wanted to be special to me, to be my partner.
You gathered members for our club and invited me to karaoke—all just to grow closer to me.
I can still remember the earnest look on your face. Gone was your usual easygoing demeanor; you were frozen in place, entirely at my mercy. That was how I knew you were serious. I finally understood why you had been so hurt by my words at the burger joint we’d visited before.
It felt strange to think that someone could feel this way about me. It was the first time anyone had shown an interest in me.
People often called me odd, and I had grown up admiring popular kids like you—always bright, kind, and effortlessly taking charge in any setting. I thought people like you were worlds apart from someone like me.
I couldn’t respond right away.
The idea that you saw me that way had never crossed my mind.
Why would someone like you—athletic, smart, popular with girls—fall for me? And I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of homosexuality at all.
A man being uninterested in women? A man loving another man? What did that even mean?
Those were the only thoughts running through my head at the time.
I liked you.
I loved going places with you, learning things, and laughing together. It was so much fun that I always wanted to be around you. But that was as a friend.
I thought you were cute.
Your small, slender figure, slightly rebellious streak, transparent eyes, and fluffy tail were all charming. But that was as a junior.
I couldn’t see you as a romantic partner.
I couldn’t imagine being in the kind of relationship you wanted.
So, I turned you down.
You were the first person I ever felt comfortable calling a friend. I might have gotten too close, unaware of boundaries.
If my behavior had given you the wrong idea, I apologized.
I told you how much you meant to me—irreplaceable, though not as a lover. I desperately wanted us to stay friends. I grasped for every word I could think of to hold onto you.
But I didn’t understand you at all, and with every word, I unintentionally hurt you.
You hung your head, silently listening.
When I finished, you opened your umbrella. The rain grew heavier, drenching your beautiful golden fur until it turned dark and matted. You clutched the umbrella handle tightly with trembling hands.
After a moment, you looked up at me.
You were smiling. A shaky, forced smile that looked ready to crumble at any moment. It was the kind of smile that screamed, “Don’t say any more, or I’ll break.”
And because of that, I failed to save you.
“Thank you,” you said, bowing before running off without giving me a chance to respond.
That was the last I saw of you.
After your death, you began appearing before me, holding that orange umbrella just like the first time we met. You looked the same as when you were alive, seemingly unaware of your own passing.
I’m the only one who can see you.
If only I had been better with my words that day. If I had known how to spare your feelings, maybe you wouldn’t have died. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost my precious friend.
But even now, I don’t know what I should have said.
Because I could only see you as a friend.
Because I could only treat you as a junior.
Seeing you fills me with guilt. My heart pounds painfully, and it feels like I’m being stabbed. I know you’re not here to blame me.
We spent less than a year as close friends, but I know better than anyone else that you weren’t the type to hold a grudge.
You’re only lingering here because you’re worried about me.
From your perspective, I’m still a helpless senior you can’t leave behind. That’s why you remain in this world, and it’s not right.
As I look at your photo, I hear Dvo?ák’s *Songs My Mother Taught Me* playing faintly from somewhere. It’s time to go before my mother starts to worry.
I bid farewell and stand up.
“Be careful on your way back,” you say.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, leaving your house.
The rain has let up a bit, and a cheap plastic umbrella is enough to shield me. I listen carefully, wondering if your voice is mixed with the sound of raindrops hitting the umbrella.
I wonder if the tears you shed will someday fall as rain.
When I reach the station, the clouds brighten, and I lift my gaze. A ray of light pierces through the dense gray, like a golden ladder descending into the monochrome world.
I stop and take it in. It feels like you’re somewhere up there, waiting for me to finish this picture.
The rain continues to fall.
The rain still connects you and me.