10 year of Silence

The week moved slowly, but he remained the same.

Ren Jiayun sat by the window every day, half-listening to lectures and half-lost in his own world. He was never disruptive, but he was never really present either. It was as if he came to school out of habit, not interest. Teachers tolerated him. Students followed him. And I kept watching him like he was a painting I couldn't stop staring at—something beautiful but distant, meant to be admired, not touched.

By Friday, I had already memorized his routine. He arrived just minutes before the bell. He never carried all his books—only a single notebook and a pen. He always tapped his fingers against his desk when he was bored, and his handwriting was barely legible, like he didn't care whether anyone could read it. He spoke only when he wanted to, and when he did, people listened. Not because he demanded attention, but because he wore it like a second skin.

He hadn't looked at me again since that first day.

Not once.

It didn't surprise me. I wasn't the kind of girl boys like him noticed. I wore my uniform neatly. My braids were always tight. My shoes were polished, and my notebooks were color-coded. I sat through classes quietly, took notes, answered questions when asked, and disappeared when I wasn't.

But fate, in its usual unpredictable way, decided that Friday would be different.

It started with the rain.

It had been clear in the morning, but by the time the last bell rang, dark clouds had swallowed the sky, and fat raindrops pelted the school grounds. Students rushed toward the exits, umbrellas blooming like flowers. I didn't own one. I had forgotten it in my rush to pack for the transfer that week.

I stood under the edge of the building, holding my bag close, waiting for the downpour to ease. My classroom had already emptied. The teachers had left. A few juniors ran past, shrieking as they splashed through puddles. I sighed and looked at the sky. It wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

"Hey."

The voice came from behind me—low, casual, unmistakable.

I turned slowly, not trusting what I thought I'd heard.

He stood just a few feet away, holding a dark blue umbrella, the handle tucked loosely under his arm as he fiddled with his phone. His uniform shirt was slightly wet at the shoulders, and his hair stuck to his forehead from where he must've run through the initial shower.

He didn't look at me when he spoke again. "You're in Class 10-B, right?"

I nodded, too stunned to speak.

He finally glanced up, then tilted his head slightly. "You forgot your umbrella?"

I managed a small, embarrassed smile. "Yeah."

He stared at me for a second, then extended his arm, holding the umbrella out halfway. "I'm going to the main gate. If you're headed the same way, come on."

It took my brain a moment to catch up.

He was offering to walk with me.

Under the same umbrella.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped forward, close enough that the edge of the umbrella now covered my shoulder too. The space between us wasn't wide—just enough to keep from brushing against each other—but close enough to hear his breath when he exhaled.

We walked through the rain in silence.

At first, I focused on keeping pace, careful not to slip or bump into him. The sound of water hitting the pavement filled the air, and puddles rippled beneath our shoes. My heart thudded far too loudly in my chest, but I tried to act normal—as if this was something that happened every day.

He spoke first again.

"You're always writing during class. You take notes even when no one else does."

I blinked, caught off guard. "I… I like to be prepared."

He let out a low chuckle. "Prepared for what? An exam that hasn't been announced yet?"

His tone wasn't mocking. If anything, it was curious—amused, maybe, but not unkind.

"I guess I just like understanding things. If I don't write it down, I forget," I replied, hoping I didn't sound too defensive.

He glanced sideways at me. "Interesting."

The conversation stalled again, but not uncomfortably. He didn't seem to mind the silence. I, on the other hand, was internally panicking—trying to remember how to breathe, how to walk normally, how to keep from saying something stupid.

As we neared the school gates, he spoke again. "Do you always eat lunch alone?"

I froze for half a second before replying. "Sometimes."

He nodded slowly, not pushing further. Then, with a slight smirk, he added, "It's not a bad spot, under that tree. I sit near there during basketball practice."

I wasn't sure what surprised me more—that he noticed where I sat, or that he bothered to mention it.

We reached the main road. A few rickshaws passed, splashing water across the curb. He stopped at the corner, pulled out his phone again, and checked something on the screen.

"You live nearby?" he asked.

"About fifteen minutes from here," I replied.

He seemed to consider that. Then, without looking at me, he said, "Good. I was worried you'd say something like the east side."

I blinked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Would've made this umbrella thing more complicated."

My breath caught. Was he… planning to walk me home?

Before I could ask, he handed the umbrella to me.

"Here," he said casually. "Keep it."

I stared at him in confusion. "But… what about you?"

He glanced up at the sky, then back at me with a faint smirk. "I like the rain."

And then, without waiting for me to answer, he turned and jogged across the road, rain already soaking through his shirt as he disappeared around the corner.

I stood there for a moment, the umbrella still warm from his grip.

It wasn't a long conversation.

He hadn't said anything particularly poetic.

But to me, it meant everything.

That was the first time he talked to me.

The first time his voice was meant for me.

And somehow, with just a few words and a borrowed umbrella, he became more than a name I had memorized. He became real.

Too real.