The first time Haru met Sora, it was raining.

He’d gone to the beach to be alone — again. Ever since moving to the small seaside town of Minato after his parents’ divorce, Haru had found comfort in the rhythm of the waves, in the cold sand under his shoes, in the way the sea didn’t ask questions.

But that day, someone was already there.

A boy sat on the old breakwater wall, soaked to the bone, sketchbook open on his lap. He didn’t look up when Haru approached — just kept drawing, completely still, as if the rain were nothing more than background noise.

Haru hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt.

Then the boy glanced up and offered a quiet, barely-there smile.

“You can sit,” he said.

His name was Sora. He was in the same year as Haru but from a different school. Every afternoon, Sora came to the shore to draw — ships, birds, waves, sometimes nothing at all. Haru didn’t know why he kept going back. Maybe it was the calm Sora carried, or the way he listened without interrupting. Or maybe it was the silence they shared — not awkward, but grounding.

They didn’t talk about much, at first.

But slowly, over weeks, Haru began to open up. About the move. About how the town felt too small, too quiet. How he missed the noise of the city — and yet how the waves made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

Sora listened, always sketching, always watching the sea.

“You like the quiet,” he said once.

“I don’t,” Haru replied. “But you make it feel… less lonely.”

Sora didn’t respond. But that day, Haru noticed a change in the sketchbook — a figure on the shore, drawn with messy hair and tired eyes, standing next to a second figure. Smiling.

As the seasons changed, so did something between them.

Subtle things. A glance held too long. A brush of shoulders. Haru bringing hot tea in a thermos. Sora offering his scarf when the wind turned sharp.

One day, Haru asked, voice trembling, “Why do you always draw the sea?”

Sora stared out toward the horizon. “Because I’m afraid of saying things out loud,” he said. “But if I draw them, maybe someone will understand.”

Haru looked down at the newest page.

It wasn’t the sea.

It was him — eyes closed, smiling, with the wind in his hair. The word “home” was scribbled in the corner.

And in that moment, Haru understood.

So he reached out, fingers brushing Sora’s.

“I understand.”