The following week arrived wrapped in the soft scent of rain, the kind that painted the sky a dull silver and made the school grounds shimmer with tiny puddles, and Anika stood near the window of her classroom, watching raindrops slide down the glass in winding patterns, each drop like a fleeting thought she couldn't quite hold on to, her mind caught somewhere between the hum of the storm and the memory of Reyansh's voice saying her name under the banyan tree. She hadn't expected that such a small moment could linger so vividly, but it did—like the warmth of sunlight trapped beneath her skin—and though she tried to focus on her lessons, her thoughts kept drifting to him, to the way his eyes softened when he spoke, to the quiet laughter that came from somewhere real, not forced or shallow like the laughter she sometimes heard from others. The teacher's voice faded into the background until all she could hear was the rhythmic patter of rain and her own heartbeat counting something that didn't yet have a name. When the bell finally rang for the break, she lingered behind, pretending to rearrange her books, partly hoping and partly fearing that he might appear—and as if the universe was gently teasing her, the classroom door creaked open and there he was, slightly drenched, his hair sticking to his forehead, water droplets glistening on his sleeves, and the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he said, "Guess I didn't time my run from the canteen too well." She turned toward him, hiding the small surge of happiness that rose like the scent of wet earth after rain, and offered him a tissue from her bag, her hand trembling just slightly, though she prayed he wouldn't notice.
Reyansh accepted it with a soft laugh, wiping his hands, then leaned against the edge of a desk, watching her with that calm curiosity she was beginning to recognize as uniquely his. "You don't like the rain?" he asked. She hesitated, then shook her head slowly, saying, "I… like it. But it makes me feel too much sometimes." He tilted his head, intrigued. "Too much?" She tried to explain, fumbling for words that could carry the weight of what she meant. "It's like… everything becomes louder in your head. The memories, the feelings, even the things you don't want to remember. The rain makes you listen to yourself." For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence between them filled with the distant sound of raindrops drumming against the roof, and then he smiled—not mockingly, but gently, as if he understood something most people wouldn't. "That's… actually beautiful," he said softly. "Most people just call it bad weather." The simplicity of his words, their quiet sincerity, made her chest tighten in a strange, comforting ache, and before she could respond, a sudden flash of lightning split the sky outside, followed by a rumble of thunder that made her flinch slightly, and Reyansh noticed. Without hesitation, he reached out instinctively, his hand brushing hers on the desk—not holding, not grabbing, just a fleeting, reassuring touch that lasted less than a heartbeat but felt like an eternity compressed into a single moment.
Anika froze, her breath catching, her mind spinning in the quiet chaos of that touch, and when she looked up, his gaze met hers—steady, unguarded, warm—and for a second, neither of them spoke, as if the storm outside had seeped into the air between them, filling it with something electric, something fragile yet undeniable. Then he withdrew his hand, almost shyly, as if realizing what he'd done, and tried to laugh it off. "Sorry," he said. "You looked… startled." She shook her head quickly, trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "It's okay," she murmured, but her voice betrayed her trembling heart. They both stood there for a moment longer, the silence stretching but not uncomfortable, more like a pause between musical notes, filled with something unspoken yet mutual. When the bell rang again, signaling the end of break, he glanced toward the window, then back at her, saying, "Next time it rains… maybe we'll walk under it instead of hiding from it." She smiled faintly, unsure if he was joking or if there was something deeper behind those words, but she nodded anyway, whispering, "Maybe."
As the day wore on and the rain finally began to fade, Anika found herself replaying that small moment again and again—the warmth of his hand, the quiet of his voice, the way the thunder had felt less frightening with him standing nearby—and by the time she reached home that evening, the clouds had cleared into a soft orange sky. She sat by her window again, watching the last few drops slide off the leaves, and opened her notebook to a blank page. This time, she didn't draw his eyes or his smile; instead, she drew raindrops—tiny, falling, endless—and between them, she wrote a single sentence: "The moment between raindrops is where hearts learn to listen." And as she looked at those words, a realization bloomed slowly within her—she wasn't just writing anymore; she was living a story that was quietly beginning to write itself through every heartbeat, every glance, every whispered promise hidden beneath the sound of rain.