The rain poured like a broken sky, cold and endless, matching everything she felt inside.
Amira stood silently under the weak shelter of the bus stop, her fingers clutching her phone like it could hold her together. It didn't ring. He wouldn't call. Not after what he did.
She let out a bitter laugh, one that sounded more like pain than humor.
Love was supposed to feel like butterflies and magic, not like silence and betrayal.
Three years.
Three years she gave him everything — her heart, her loyalty, her time.
And in return?
He left her a single message: "It's not you. I just need space."
She wiped the tears from her face quickly as if the wind might notice. She was done crying for someone who didn't care.
Or at least… that's what she told herself every night.
As the rain softened into a drizzle, a sleek black car pulled up in front of her. The window rolled down slowly, and a deep, unfamiliar voice called out:
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
Amira froze. The man behind the wheel had cold eyes — unreadable, sharp — but something about his voice was warm. Familiar. Like a forgotten lullaby.
"I don't talk to strangers," she replied, hugging her bag tighter.
"Then let's change that," he said, stepping out into the rain without an umbrella.
"I'm Rayhan. And you look like someone who's forgotten how to trust."
She didn't answer.
Because he was right.
And in that moment — soaked, broken, and unsure — Amira felt something shift.