Most people didn't know the rooftop door wasn't locked.
They passed it every day on the way to class or club or home, never bothering to try it. But Aika Misora did. She tried the handle on her second week of first year and found freedom in a place where the wind had more to say than her classmates.
It became her escape.
A space between things — between classes and responsibilities, between holding it together and falling apart.
But today, the rooftop wasn't empty.
A boy was already there, leaning against the rusted railing with a sketchbook balanced on one knee. The wind blew his hair across his eyes, but he didn't brush it away. He just kept drawing, head tilted down, pencil moving like it was breathing for him.
Aika froze. Her first instinct was to turn around — apologize, pretend she got lost, flee down the stairs. But something about the way he sat — so still, so sure no one was watching — made her stay.
She took three slow steps forward. The metal door creaked behind her, and that was when he spoke.
"You can stay," he said, without looking up. "I don't mind."
His voice was low, worn like old denim. It startled her more than if he'd yelled.
"I… didn't think anyone else came up here," she said quietly.
"I don't usually," he replied. "Just today felt… loud."
Aika didn't ask what he meant. She understood that kind of noise — the kind that wasn't sound, but weight. Expectations. Loneliness disguised as silence.
She sat down on the opposite end of the rooftop, beside the vending machine that never worked. The wind pulled at her uniform skirt, and she tucked her legs beneath her.
Neither of them said anything after that.
The rooftop hummed with cicadas and distant laughter from the sports field. It was late September — hot days, cooler shade. Summer refusing to let go.
Eventually, she glanced at him again.
She recognized his face now.
Ren Hayashi.
The boy with the permanent warning label.
People whispered about him — said he was a dropout waiting to happen. That he got into fights outside school. That his parents were gone. That he was raising himself. The kind of rumors that stick to quiet kids because no one wants to admit they're just scared of them.
He didn't look dangerous now.
He looked… lonely.
"Are you drawing?" she asked.
He hesitated, then turned the book so she could see.
A half-finished sketch of a flower — delicate, shaded soft, petals bending inward like they were shy.
"That's beautiful," she said, meaning it.
"It's not finished."
"It doesn't have to be."
That made him pause. Then, the smallest smile — quick, like a blink.
"You come here a lot?" he asked.
"Only when I feel like disappearing."
He nodded like that made perfect sense.
Another silence, but it was different this time — not awkward, not uncomfortable. Just... there. Present. Like they were two people learning how to share space without needing to fill it.
When the bell rang for after-school clubs, Aika stood slowly.
"I'm Aika," she said.
"I know," he replied. "I've seen you around."
"Should I say something dramatic, like 'see you tomorrow'?"
He looked up at her, sunlight catching in his dark eyes. "Only if you mean it."
She didn't answer. Just smiled — a real one — and left the rooftop with her heart beating a little louder than before.
---
That night, in the soft glow of her bedroom lamp, Aika opened her journal and wrote:
> Today I met a boy who draws flowers on rooftops.
He looked like someone the world forgot how to be kind to.
I hope tomorrow is quiet again.
I hope he's there.