The rooftop wasn't just a place anymore.
It had become their haven, untouched by classrooms, untouched by expectations. The chill of winter still clung to the air, but it no longer felt biting. Here, the cold was softened by something else—familiar voices, shared silences, and the quiet presence of people who understood.
Popcorn, the tiny white kitten, had claimed Naoki's lap like it was a throne. Her purring filled the space between sentences as Naoki absentmindedly stroked her fur, his eyes half-closed, lips twitching every now and then at something the others said—or didn't say.
Hana sat nearby, legs crossed, sketchbook open on her lap. Her pencil moved with quiet purpose, lines building into shapes, gestures captured mid-breath. Her eyes flicked up now and then—at Naoki and the kitten, at Ren who was sprawled beside her, arms behind his head, face turned toward the pale winter sky. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It had settled into something warm. Easy.
Ren didn't speak for a while. When he did, it was out of nowhere, like always.
"We should name this place."
Naoki raised an eyebrow, brushing Popcorn's ear. "The rooftop?"
Ren nodded lazily. "Feels wrong not to. Places like this—they deserve names."
"Why?" Hana asked, peering at him over the edge of her sketchbook.
Ren shrugged. "Because it's ours. Sacred ground of broken teenagers and rogue cats."
That earned a soft laugh from Hana—small, almost shy. But it rang through the cold air like sunlight.
Ren didn't smile, but his eyes shifted toward her. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual. Noticing. Then he looked away.
Naoki smirked. "What would you call it, then? Fortress of Edgy Angsty Teens?"
Ren didn't miss a beat. "Sanctuary of Misfits."
"That sounds like a failed superhero base."
"Exactly," Ren replied. "We're the worst kind of heroes. Emotionally unstable with tragic backstories and no capes."
Naoki's smirk faltered slightly, though he didn't drop it completely. "Speak for yourself."
Ren glanced at him but said nothing. His gaze wandered back to the sky.
Hana didn't say much more, but her hand never stopped sketching. She'd drawn the rooftop dozens of times by now—Popcorn curled up in Naoki's lap, Ren stretched out like he belonged to the sky, the way the late afternoon light hit the railing.
Every page was a quiet confession.
---
The final school bell before winter break echoed through the building like a declaration of freedom.
Students poured from classrooms in chaotic waves, laughter and relief flooding the halls. Teachers shouted last-minute reminders about homework, due dates, group projects. No one listened.
Outside, snow drifted gently past the windows. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
Hana stood at her locker, methodically sliding pencils and sketching supplies into her bag. Her sketchbook sat at the top of the stack—pages filled with silent days, unspoken feelings, fragments of rooftop memories.
She closed the locker door.
The sketchbook slipped from the pile and landed on the floor with a quiet thud.
She didn't notice.
---
She realized it was missing that evening.
Panic struck fast.
Not because of the drawings themselves—but because of what they held. Naoki feeding Popcorn from a bent can lid. Ren mid-laugh—rare, but captured. The railing where they always leaned. The snowflake caught on Ren's cheek that one afternoon, the way she'd drawn it over and over, unsure why it mattered so much.
She tore through her room, dumped out her bag, checked every shelf, every corner.
Gone.
With trembling fingers, she grabbed her phone.
Hana: I left my sketchbook at school. I think it fell by my locker.
Ren: Want help getting it back?
Hana: But the school's locked. It's break now.
Ren: Locked doesn't mean impossible.
---
The night had sunk deep into the town by the time they met.
Snow crunched softly underfoot as Ren and Hana stood by the school's back gate, wrapped in layers and scarves, their breath visible in the cold.
"You really didn't have to come," Hana murmured.
Ren looked at her, steady. "I wanted to."
Simple. Honest. And maybe that was what made her chest tighten a little.
He guided her toward a gap in the fence—one they had clearly used before. They slipped through, boots sinking slightly into snow. The school loomed ahead, its windows dim, only a few emergency lights flickering faintly inside.
Ren reached into his coat and pulled out a small flashlight. Without saying anything, he held out his hand—not for hers, but for her sleeve. His fingers curled around it gently as he led the way.
Inside, the school felt eerie in its emptiness. The hallway lights were off, the classrooms dark. Every sound echoed—shoe squeaks, shallow breaths, the distant hum of heating vents.
"I feel like we're trespassing," Hana whispered.
"We are," Ren said. "But it's for a good cause."
"You sure you've never done this before?"
He didn't answer—just smirked over his shoulder and kept walking.
They reached the row of lockers. Hana dropped to her knees, sweeping the flashlight's beam across the floor.
And there it was.
Bent slightly at the edges, but unmistakably hers.
She grabbed it like something precious and pressed it to her chest. "Thank god."
Ren stood behind her, hands in his pockets. "You okay now?"
She nodded, then shook her head. "I just… I couldn't lose it. It's stupid, but—"
"It's not stupid."
She looked up.
Ren's voice was quiet. Firm. "Things that hold memories… they matter."
There was a weight behind those words—something unspoken.
Hana watched him for a moment longer before rising to her feet. "Thank you. Really."
He was already walking toward the door. "Let's go. Before someone decides to call the cops."
She smiled softly and followed.
---
Outside, the snow had started again. Small flakes, dancing gently in the wind.
They walked side by side toward the fence, not speaking. But it wasn't silence that felt awkward—it was silence that held comfort.
Halfway to the gate, Hana stopped.
Ren turned. "What is it?"
She hesitated. Then she opened the sketchbook, flipping to a page near the back.
She turned it toward him.
It was him. Sitting on the rooftop. That one afternoon where the snow had barely started, a flake caught on his cheek, and his eyes were half-closed like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
She had captured it all.
Ren stared at the drawing for a long moment. Something passed through his eyes—something softer than usual. Then he nodded, just once.
"You made me look peaceful," he murmured.
"You looked peaceful," she replied.
For once, he didn't deflect. Didn't joke. He just nodded again.
And they walked the rest of the way in silence.
Side by side.
Snow falling.
As if the world was pausing for just a moment—just for them.
—————