Rain Wang's POV
The door clicked shut.
And then it was just me.
Me—and the sound of my own breathing, uneven and shaky, like I'd run a marathon but never moved an inch.
I waited. Just in case he came back. Just in case it was another trick.
He didn't.
My grip loosened on the desk, and I slumped forward, burying my face in my arms. The burn in my chest burst, sharp and brutal. I gasped through it, swallowing sobs, holding them in like I always did—until I couldn't anymore.
I cried.
Silently at first. Then with soft, broken sounds I couldn't stop. Not anymore. Not today.
He was gone. But his words weren't. His laughter. The way the others had joined in. The whispers in the halls. The recordings. The way I couldn't breathe when he looked at me. The way I still couldn't breathe when he said my name like he almost cared.
Why did it hurt more when he was gentle?
Why did I miss the boy who broke me?
The door creaked.
I froze.
I didn't lift my head—but I knew.
I knew he was there.
I heard the pause. The soft intake of breath. The rustle of fabric as he took one step into the room—and then stopped.
I hated how fast my heart was racing. I hated how much of my pain was his. How much of it I wanted him to see—so he would finally understand what he'd done.
But I couldn't look at him.
I stayed curled over my notebook, shaking.
Then I heard it.
His whisper. So quiet I almost didn't believe it.
"…Rain."
The sound of my name in his voice—it shattered me more than any insult ever had.
And when I finally looked up—red eyes, wet lashes, tear-streaked cheeks—
He was already gone.