Page 1: The First Rain
The first time Aarav saw Meera, it was raining.
Not the loud, stormy kind of rain that demands attention, but the soft, silver rain that falls like a secret between the sky and the earth. Aarav was standing at the bus stop, holding a worn-out book close to his chest, trying to protect it from the drizzle. He didn't notice her at first. He noticed the umbrella.
It was bright yellow—like a piece of sunshine in the grey afternoon.
Then he noticed the hand holding it. Slim fingers, a silver ring, a small scar near the thumb. And finally, he noticed her face.
Meera stood beside him, shaking raindrops off her umbrella. A few strands of her hair had escaped and clung to her cheeks. She looked annoyed, but there was something gentle in her eyes, like she was used to forgiving the world for small inconveniences.
"You can stand closer," she said without looking at him. "Unless you like getting wet."
Aarav blinked. "I don't mind the rain."
She finally turned to him, studying him with curious eyes. "You say that now. Wait until you catch a cold."
He hesitated for a moment, then stepped under the umbrella. Their shoulders brushed. It was a small touch, accidental and brief—but something about it felt significant, like a page turning quietly in a story neither of them knew they were writing.
The bus was late. The rain continued. And for the first time in a long while, Aarav hoped the bus would take a little longer.
Page 2: Coffee and Conversations
They met again the next day. And the day after that.
At first, it was coincidence. Same bus stop. Same time. Same quiet glances. Then, it became expectation.
"Do you always read at bus stops?" Meera asked one evening, pointing at the book in his hand.
"Only when I'm nervous," Aarav replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you nervous?"
"Talking to strangers."
She smiled. "Then you're improving."
That was how it began—their conversations. Small at first. Safe topics. Favorite colors. Annoying professors. The best street food in town.
One evening, the rain returned. He didn't bring an umbrella.
"You did this on purpose," she accused playfully.
"Maybe," he admitted.
Instead of waiting for the bus, they ran to a small café nearby, laughing as the rain soaked them both. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and cinnamon.
They sat by the window, watching raindrops race down the glass.
"I want to travel someday," Meera said softly, tracing patterns on the table. "Not to escape. Just to see how big the world is."
Aarav looked at her. "And then?"
"Then I'll come back. I think home feels better after you leave it."
He had never thought about leaving. He had always been the kind who stayed—stayed in the same city, same routines, same comfort. But as she spoke, the world seemed wider. Brighter.
"Maybe I'll travel too," he said.
"With me?" she asked.
He met her eyes. "With you."
It was the first promise they made. Quiet. Unwritten. But real.
Page 3: The Distance Between Dreams
Love doesn't always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes, it grows slowly—like a plant stretching toward sunlight.
Weeks turned into months. Their bus stop became their place. Their café became their escape. Their conversations deepened.
Aarav told her about his fear of failure. About how he always felt like he wasn't enough. Meera told him about her mother's illness, about how responsibility had shaped her into someone stronger than she ever wanted to be.
They began to lean on each other.
But love also brings fear.
One evening, Meera arrived late. Her eyes were red.
"I got accepted," she said.
"For what?" Aarav asked, though something inside him already knew.
"The fellowship. In another city. It's for a year."
The words fell between them like heavy stones.
"That's amazing," he said automatically.
She searched his face. "You don't sound happy."
"I am," he insisted. "You wanted this."
"I do," she whispered. "But I didn't know it would feel like this."
He understood. Love had grown between them quietly, naturally—but now it stood in the way of a dream neither of them wanted to sacrifice.
"When do you leave?" he asked.
"In a month."
Thirty days. That was all they had before distance would test what rain and coffee had built.
Page 4: Letters and Long Nights
The month passed too quickly.
On her last day in the city, it rained again. As if the sky remembered.
They stood at the railway station, surrounded by noise and movement. But in their small space, everything felt still.
"I don't want this to end," Aarav said, his voice barely steady.
"It doesn't have to," Meera replied. "Distance isn't the end. It's just… space."
"Space can change people."
She reached for his hand. "Or it can make them stronger."
When the train began to move, she didn't cry. She just held his gaze until he disappeared from her sight.
The first few weeks were hard.
Calls at midnight. Messages that took hours to reply. Missed moments. Misunderstandings.
There were nights Aarav stared at his phone, wondering if love could survive without touch. Without shared umbrellas. Without coffee-stained tables.
But then there were letters.
Real letters. Written by hand.
Meera sent him stories about the new city—the crowded streets, the unfamiliar food, the lonely evenings in her small apartment. Aarav wrote about the bus stop, about how it felt emptier without a yellow umbrella.
"I still stand there sometimes," he wrote once. "Even when it's not raining."
She replied, "When I come back, we'll stand there together."
And that hope kept them holding on.
Page 5: When the Rain Chose Us Again
A year is both long and short.
It changes seasons. It changes people.
When Meera finally returned, the city looked the same—but she didn't. She carried new confidence in her walk, new stories in her smile.
Aarav waited at the railway station, heart racing like the first time under that umbrella.
When she stepped onto the platform, their eyes met.
No dramatic speeches. No rehearsed words.
She dropped her bag.
He stepped forward.
And then they were in each other's arms, holding tightly—as if distance had only stretched their love, not broken it.
"It rained the day we met," she murmured against his shoulder.
"And the day you left," he replied.
Almost on cue, thunder rolled in the distance.
She laughed. "Don't tell me."
The sky opened.
Rain poured down, heavy and wild.
Instead of running for shelter, they stood there, getting soaked.
"No umbrella this time?" she teased.
He shook his head. "I don't mind the rain."
She looked at him the way she had that first day—curious, warm, certain.
"Good," she said softly. "Because I think the rain chose us."
And as the world blurred around them, as water mixed with tears and laughter, they realized something simple and powerful:
Love isn't about never being apart.
It's about choosing each other—again and again—no matter the weather.
Under the open sky, with no umbrella between them, Aarav and Meera stood side by side.
And this time, the bus wasn't late.
END.