The first droplets of monsoon tapped gently on the classroom window, bringing with them the smell of wet mud and an unusual kind of thrill. She sat on the third bench, lost in the world outside—watching the rain kiss the leaves, her chin resting on her palm, a soft smile on her lips.
He was late again. Typical. But today, when he walked in, drenched from head to toe, something about him felt different. His shirt clung to him, hair messily sticking to his forehead, glasses fogged up, water dripping from the edges. The class chuckled, but she didn't.
Instead, she got up quietly, walked over to him, and without a word, took out her hanky. With the most natural gesture, as if it wasn't the first time, she wiped his fogged-up specs—slowly, carefully—eyes meeting his just for a second longer than they should've.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to.
"Always this messy," she whispered, almost like a habit.
"And you always there to fix it," he replied, softly.
Their friends hooted from the back, teasing, but neither of them looked away.
The rain outside got heavier, but inside, it felt warmer.
The rain hadn't stopped since morning. By the time the final bell rang, puddles had taken over the school grounds, and the sky showed no sign of clearing.
She stood under the porch, hugging her bag close, waiting... for the rain to slow down? Or maybe just for him.
And then—there he was, stepping beside her without a word, holding his umbrella up but leaving half of himself in the rain.
"You're going to get sick," she said, frowning a little.
He tilted the umbrella slightly more toward her. "Then stay a little longer. I won't."
A silence followed. Not the awkward kind. The kind that feels like a shared secret.
They began walking side by side. Careful steps, water splashing around their shoes, arms brushing occasionally—too occasionally.
She paused for a moment at a deeper puddle. He noticed.
Without asking, he gently held her hand and helped her across.
And just like that, their fingers didn't let go.
Under the small umbrella, in the middle of nowhere, they both smiled without looking at each other. A quiet, private smile.
"Remember that poem we wrote?" she asked.
"How could I forget?"
"Wanna hear my favorite line?"
He nodded.
She turned to him, voice soft like a drizzle, "I never liked the rain... until it started bringing you with it."
He didn't reply.
But he looked at her.
And for a brief, heart-skipping moment—he leaned in, just a little. She didn't step away.
But just then, a loud honk broke the spell. Her auto had arrived.
She pulled back, flustered. "I—I should go."
He nodded, not hiding the disappointment.
She climbed in, turned to say goodbye... but he beat her to it.
"No need to return the hanky," he smiled, echoing the words he said that day.
And as the auto drove off, she pressed the soft cloth to her chest, heart pounding louder than the rain.