Chapter 19: Rain, and the Things We Don't Say
It rained the morning Sheik was set to leave.
Not the kind of rain that came with thunder and wind—this one was slow, steady. The kind that blurred windows and made everything feel softer, quieter, more real.
Andrea woke up early, even though she barely slept. Her eyes were heavy, but her chest felt worse—tight and uncertain, like her ribs were holding in everything she hadn't said the night before.
She didn't want to cry.
She wanted to be supportive. Calm. The kind of girl who smiled and waved and told him to chase his dreams.
But at 6:47 a.m., standing at Sheik's gate with an umbrella in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other, she didn't feel like any of those things.
She felt like a girl who was about to lose something she hadn't even fully gotten to hold.
The gate opened, and there he was—duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, nervous smile barely hiding the weight behind it.
"You came early," he said, as if surprised.
"You're not the only one allowed to be dramatic," Andrea replied.
She handed him the sandwich—egg and cheese, still warm.
He looked at it, then at her. "You didn't have to."
"I know," she said. "But I wanted to."
There was a long pause.
Sheik looked back toward the house. His parents were still inside, probably doing their own kind of goodbye in hushed tones and tired eyes.
He stepped out under her umbrella.
It was too small for two people, really. Their shoulders bumped.
"I'm gonna miss this," he said, voice quieter than the rain.
Andrea nodded. "Me too."
"No, I mean... us. This version of us."
She bit her lip. "You make it sound like we won't be 'us' anymore."
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her, his expression somewhere between afraid and hopeful.
"I don't know what's going to happen there," he said. "Maybe I'll play great. Maybe I'll mess up. But I need to know something before I go."
She braced herself. "Okay."
"Are we... doing this? Even from far away?"
Andrea looked down at their feet. His shoes were already damp. The sidewalk was collecting puddles between the cracks.
She took a breath. "I want to."
"You sure?"
"No," she said honestly. "But I'd rather try and maybe fail than pretend like this didn't matter."
Sheik smiled. Not wide. Not triumphant. But like someone who'd just been given something worth carrying.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't long or desperate. It wasn't a goodbye.
It was a remember this.
When the van pulled up in front of the house, Andrea helped him carry his bag to the curb. His parents came out with hugs and last-minute reminders. The driver nodded politely. The door opened.
Sheik turned to her one last time.
"I'll call you tonight?"
"You better."
"If I forget my socks, I'm blaming you."
"You packed six pairs," she said, smirking through the lump in her throat.
He climbed into the van, rolled down the window. Rain dotted his forehead.
As the van pulled away, he pressed a hand to the glass.
Andrea didn't wave.
She just stood in the rain, clutching the umbrella in one hand and the now-empty sandwich wrapper in the other, letting it all soak in.
She whispered to herself, "Come back."
And in her chest, something brave and breaking whispered back: He will.