Rain on the Kissaten Window

The sky over Tsurumi has been holding its breath all morning — grey, thick, like someone left a curtain half-drawn. I woke up to the sound of it already whispering against the balcony glass, the kind of heat that makes the air feel heavy enough to swim through.

I ended up at Kissaten Kuroi anyway, because what else do you do when the whole city is washing itself? The owner didn't even look up when I walked in. Just slid a matcha latte across the counter — extra butter, because he remembers.

There's something about summer rain in Yokohama that makes everything feel suspended. Like the world paused mid-breath, and you're the only one who noticed. The coffee tastes better when you can't leave. The manga on the shelf next to you suddenly matters more.

Grabe, sometimes I think the best part of the day isn't the sun coming out — it's the quiet stretch before it does. When everything is possible because nothing is happening yet.

The rain writes in a language I understand: gray sky, warm cup, no plans, no rush, just the window fogging up — and me, finally not in a hurry.

Musta na, being in the in-between?