It began with rain.
Not a drizzle. Not a soft, cinematic mist. But a full downpour—the kind that blurred the world into streaks of gray and silver.
Aarav stood beneath the shelter of the old banyan tree outside the school gates, holding a thin plastic folder over his head. His notebook, worn at the edges, was tucked inside like something sacred.
It was Friday again.
One week since the train station.
He hadn't spoken to Suhani much in that time. Not because they were distant—just quiet. Like two rivers that had collided and were now trying to find a current again.
He wasn't sure if she would come.
But he waited.
---
When she arrived, she wasn't holding an umbrella.
Just a sky-blue folder above her head, and that familiar quiet strength in her eyes.
Aarav moved aside to make space beneath the tree.
Suhani stepped in without asking.
They stood close, the rain forming a curtain around them.
"I forgot how loud rain can be," Suhani said.
"Most things are, once you start listening."
She glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"No notebook today?" she asked.
He lifted the folder. "It's here. Safe and dry."
"Good. Would be a shame if your metaphors drowned."
Aarav chuckled. "Some of them deserve to."
A pause.
Then Suhani said, "You seem… different."
"Different how?"
"Like you're trying."
He thought about that for a moment.
"I'm tired of being an echo," he said. "Of pretending I'm unaffected. Of watching my own life like it's someone else's play."
"Do you know what changed?"
He looked at her.
"You stayed."
---
They walked together through the rain-drenched campus.
Past the empty basketball court where puddles had formed perfect mirrors. Past the notice board where new club sign-ups were posted. Past the staircase where Suhani had once sat alone, sketching shadows.
She stopped beside the old auditorium doors.
"Remember this place?" she asked.
"Hard to forget."
She pushed the door open.
Inside, the stage lights were off. The chairs were empty. But the smell of paint and wood and memories still lingered.
They sat in the middle row.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was earned.
---
Aarav reached into his bag and pulled out a few sheets of lined paper.
Scribbled words. Crossed-out phrases. Incomplete poems.
"I've been writing again," he said.
Suhani leaned closer, eyes scanning the page.
"You stopped using your notebook?"
"Only when I'm scared I'll ruin it."
She didn't laugh.
Just nodded.
Then said, "Let me read one."
He handed her a page without looking.
She read aloud:
> "It's not the storm that scares me,
but the fact that sometimes—
I want to be lost in it."
She read it twice.
Then whispered, "Do you still feel that way?"
Aarav hesitated.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But I also think… maybe storms are just weather. And weather passes."
Suhani folded the page carefully.
Then placed it back in his hand.
"Then let's walk in the storm," she said. "Together."
---
They stepped outside into the rain.
No shelter.
No umbrellas.
No pretenses.
Just skin, and sky, and honesty.
Students watched from corridors.
A teacher shouted something from under an awning.
A junior whistled and called out, "Lovebirds!"
But Aarav didn't care.
Suhani didn't flinch.
They just kept walking.
Side by side.
Letting the rain soak them until they couldn't tell where the cold ended and the freedom began.
---
Later that day, Aarav did something unexpected.
He walked into the staff room.
Approached Mrs. Fernandes—the literature teacher who had once called him "brilliant but wasted."
"I want to help," he said.
She looked up. "With what?"
"Anything. Reading groups. Writing club. Juniors who need help with essays. I don't care. I just… want to start giving something back."
She stared at him like he was a ghost.
Then smiled.
"I think it's time you stopped hiding."
He nodded. "I'm trying."
---
Over the next week, something subtle shifted.
Aarav began spending free periods mentoring a few ninth graders who struggled with grammar.
He didn't lecture.
He asked questions.
He told stories.
He listened.
He helped a nervous girl prepare a short speech for the school assembly. Wrote her lines. Rehearsed with her. Watched as she stood trembling on stage—and then beamed when she finished.
Suhani left sticky notes in his notebook.
Kabir started sitting beside him again during lunch.
No grand reconciliation.
Just: "So, you're a decent human after all."
Aarav smiled.
That was enough.
---
One evening, Aarav sat on the school roof.
Notebook open. Wind tugging at the pages.
He wrote:
> "I used to think life was a punishment.
A script written by someone cruel.
But maybe, it was just a blank page,
waiting for me to stop hiding the pen."
He paused.
Then added:
> "Today, I lived. Not well. Not perfectly.
But fully.
And that… feels like everything."
He closed the notebook.
Let the wind carry his exhale.
And under the quiet sky, Aarav smiled.