The abandoned railway became their routine without either of them ever saying the word "routine."
Every afternoon after the last bell, Kenji changed into running gear in the locker room, waited at the back gate for three minutes,never more, never less and then Rika appeared. Sometimes she was already leaning against the fence, earbuds in, pretending she hadn't been watching the clock. Sometimes she arrived exactly when he did, hoodie zipped, expression flat, like showing up was the most boring obligation in the world.
They never planned what would happen. They just walked the same alleys, slipped through the same gap in the chain-link, sat on the same stretch of gravel between the rusted rails.
Some days Kenji ran.
He'd start slow along the tracksgravel crunching, breath steady—then push until his lungs burned and the world narrowed to just the next tie, the next breath, the next step. Rika stayed behind on the platform or the signal post, scrolling her phone or doodling in the margins of an old notebook she carried now. When he came back sweaty, chest heaving, face flushed she'd hand him a cold coffee without looking up.
"Still slow," she'd say.
"Still faster than you," he'd reply.
She'd snort. That was their version of affection.
Other days he didn't run at all.
They just sat.
Sometimes they talked. Small things at first.
Favorite convenience store snacks (hers: spicy onigiri with extra chili oil; his: melon pan because it reminded him of elementary school).
Worst teachers (they agreed on Mr. Tanaka. The math teacher, monotone, smelled faintly of old cigarettes even though he claimed he'd quit).
The cat that lived under the stairs near the science building (they both fed it scraps sometimes; neither admitted it to the other until one rainy afternoon when they showed up with the same tuna pouch).
Sometimes they didn't talk.
Rika would put one earbud in, offer the other to him without a word. He'd take it. She'd play whatever playlist she was on, sometimes lo-fi beats with heavy bass, occasional screamo tracks that made him flinch, old 90s J-rock she claimed was "before everything got soft." He never complained. The music filled the silence so neither had to.
One Thursday it rained.
Not hard just steady, gray drizzle that turned the gravel dark and slick.
They still went.
Slipped under an overhang on the old platform where the roof hadn't completely rotted away. Water dripped from the edges in slow, even plinks. The air smelled like wet metal and wet earth.
Rika pulled her knees up, hood over her head. Kenji sat beside her, back against the concrete wall, legs stretched out so his shoes almost touched the rail.
They watched the rain for a while.
Then she said, "You haven't mentioned her in three days."
Kenji's stomach did a small, familiar twirl. But it wasn't as sharp as before.
"Yeah."
"Progress?"
"Maybe."
Rika tilted her head toward him. Raindrops caught in her bangs, slid down, dripped off the end.
"You still think about her?"
"Every day."
She nodded like that was the expected answer.
"But it's… quieter now," he added. "Like background noise instead of a siren."
Rika didn't say anything right away. Just reached into her pocket, pulled out a small pack of sour gummies of neon colors, the kind that made your tongue pucker and tore it open. Offered him the bag.
He took a green one. Bit into it. Winced at the tartness.
She took a red one. Chewed slowly.
"You know why I started coming here last year?" she asked.
Kenji shook his head.
"Because after the fight, after the transfer, after my parents looked at me like I was broken… I didn't want anyone looking at me at all. Not even to help. I just wanted a place where no one gave a shit if I existed."
She paused.
"Then you started showing up. Smiley. Loud even when quiet. And you didn't ask me to explain anything. You just… sat. Like it was normal."
Kenji looked at her. Rain traced thin lines down the side of her face. She didn't wipe them away.
"I'm not good at this," she said. "Talking. Being around people. But you make it less exhausting."
He swallowed. The gummy stuck in his throat for a second.
"You make it less exhausting too," he said.
They sat with that for a minute.
Then Rika reached over casually, no big gesture and bumped her shoulder against his. Once. Lightly.
He bumped back.
They stayed like that until the rain eased to a mist.
When they finally stood to leave, the sky was turning the bruised purple of early evening.
At the gap in the fence, Rika paused.
"Tomorrow?" she asked. Same as always.
Kenji looked at her. The way her hoodie was damp at the shoulders, the way a strand of hair stuck to her cheek, the way her eyes didn't flinch when he met them.
"Yeah," he said. "Tomorrow."
She nodded once.
Slipped through the fence.
He watched her walk away until she turned the corner.
Then he pulled his hood up against the lingering drizzle and headed home.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the group chat, probably Mio complaining about homework or Haruto sending another dumb meme.
He didn't check it right away.
Instead he walked a little slower, letting the mist settle on his face.
For the first time in months, the walk home didn't feel like carrying something heavy.
It just felt like walking.