An Conho

The rain was pouring down in sheets, turning the street into a seamless mirror of puddles.

"So, you really don't trust me?" Konho asked softly.

I clenched my fists.

"Should I? You promised you wouldn't tell anyone."

He looked away.

"I only told one person. Because I thought it would be for the best."

"For the best? You decided that for me."

"I wanted to help!"

"I didn't need that kind of help!"

For a few seconds, we just looked at each other. The sound of the rain seemed louder than our voices.

Konho sighed heavily.

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"But you did."

He wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words.

At that moment, a gust of wind ripped the umbrella from his hand. It rolled across the wet asphalt and stopped in a puddle between us.

I looked at it with a heaviness in my chest.

The very same umbrella under which we once walked side by side, laughing and oblivious to the rain.

Now it just lay between us.

I slowly looked up.

Konho was looking at me with disappointment. Not angrily, not coldly—as if he understood that everything had gone too far.

Neither of us took a single step.

Only the rain continued to fall, as if time around us had stopped.