People say rain is romantic.
They lie.
Rain smells like hospitals to me.
Like antiseptic and iron and the metallic scent of blood that refuses to wash away.
The first time it rained after my brother died, everyone told me it was a sign.
"Ashish loved the rain," Maa had whispered, staring at the terrace through tear-filled eyes. "Maybe he's visiting."
I didn't say anything.
Because if he was visiting, then why didn't he knock?
Why didn't he come inside?
Why did he only leave behind thunder?
Three years later, I still come back to the same crossing.
Same signal.
Same cracked pavement.
Same streetlight that flickers when the wind gets too strong.
This is where it happened.
They told me the truck driver didn't even see him.
They told me it was quick.
They told me he didn't suffer.
People tell you a lot of things when they want to make death sound softer.
But rain isn't soft.
It hits hard.
Like regret.
Like the thought that maybe if I had stopped him that day—
if I had said, "Don't go,"
if I had held his sleeve—
maybe the road would have stayed empty.
The signal turns red.
Cars slow down.
Water gathers around my sandals.
I step forward.
Not too far.
Just enough that the rain feels heavier.
Just enough that I can hear the echo of brakes in my memory.
Maybe if I stand here long enough, I'll understand why him and not me.
A horn blares.
Someone grabs my wrist.
"Hey! Watch it!"
The world jerks back into place.
I blink.
A stranger is staring at me like I just committed a crime.
Maybe I did.
Maybe surviving is one.
He pulls me back to the sidewalk.
"What are you doing? You could've been hit!"
His voice is sharp, annoyed, scared.
I gently remove my hand from his grip.
"Why did you stop me?" I ask.
He looks offended. "Because you were standing in the middle of the road!"
"I know."
"That's dangerous."
"I know."
The rain thickens between us.
He studies my face like he's trying to solve something.
"Were you trying to get yourself killed?" he asks.
If I laugh, it might break something inside my chest.
"If I was," I reply quietly, "do you think I would've chosen a Tuesday evening in traffic?"
He doesn't smile.
Good.
I step under the broken awning of the closed tea stall nearby.
He follows.
Annoying.
"You're going to catch a cold," he says.
"I don't get sick easily."
"That's not how immunity works."
I glance at him properly for the first time.
He looks ordinary.
Office shirt slightly wrinkled.
Laptop bag clutched like it's more important than life.
Hair falling over his forehead because he clearly forgot about the weather forecast.
Normal.
Safe.
Temporary.
"My name's Arin," he says.
Names.
Names make things real.
I hesitate.
But rain has already soaked me. What more can it take?
"Megha."
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
Of course.
Cloud.
Rain.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like irony.
I don't ask.
Instead, I step back into the rain.
He groans softly and opens his umbrella over us.
"I didn't ask for that," I say.
"I know. But I don't want to feel guilty later."
"For what?"
"For reading tomorrow's news headline."
For a second, something in my chest shifts.
No one has spoken to me like this before.
Not carefully.
Not honestly.
They usually speak in sympathy.
Or silence.
We walk.
The rain sounds different when someone is next to you.
Less like punishment.
More like background noise.
"So," he says cautiously, "why do you hate rain?"
Because it took him.
Because it didn't ask permission.
Because it still falls like nothing happened.
"My brother loved it," I say instead.
That's safer.
He doesn't interrupt.
So I continue.
"He used to drag me outside every monsoon. We'd run barefoot. Maa would shout. He'd laugh."
I swallow.
"Three years ago, it rained like this. He went out on his bike. Said he'd be back in ten minutes."
The memory claws at my throat.
"He didn't come back."
Arin doesn't say "I'm sorry."
Good.
I hate that phrase.
After that, everything felt loud.
People talking.
Relatives visiting.
Rain hitting windows.
But inside me?
Silence.
They said rain is healing.
It isn't.
It's a reminder.
We stop in front of my apartment gate.
"This is me," I say.
He lowers the umbrella.
Rain immediately claims me again.
"Don't stand in traffic like that," he says.
There's something in his voice.
Not pity.
Concern.
Unwanted concern.
"You shouldn't have stopped me," I whisper.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
Because you saw something broken?
Because you wanted to fix it?
Because strangers think they can save people?
He hesitates.
"Because I don't think you actually want to disappear."
The words land harder than the rain.
He doesn't know me.
He doesn't know how tired I am.
He doesn't know how heavy mornings feel.
"You don't know that," I say.
"Then let me."
My breath catches.
No one has ever asked to stay.
They usually leave when grief gets uncomfortable.
Thunder cracks above us.
For a second—
I almost want to say yes.
Almost want to believe that someone new can exist in a place that only held loss.
But hope is dangerous.
Hope means you can lose again.
"Goodnight, Arin."
I step inside before my courage changes its mind.
The next day, the sky darkens again.
I shouldn't go.
I tell myself I shouldn't.
But my feet move anyway.
The crossing looks smaller today.
Less terrifying.
Or maybe I'm just numb.
And then—
He's there.
Standing awkwardly near the signal.
Like he's pretending he's just passing by.
"You again," I say.
"Unfortunately," he replies.
The rain begins.
Soft this time.
"You came back," I murmur.
"So did you."
I look at the road.
"This is where it happened."
His expression changes.
Not shocked.
Not dramatic.
Just… understanding.
"I keep thinking," I admit quietly, "if I stand here long enough, maybe I'll understand why."
"You won't," he says gently.
The certainty in his voice irritates me.
"You don't know that."
"I lost someone too."
That makes me look at him.
"My father," he continues. "Heart attack. No warning."
There's no performance in his confession.
No attempt to compare pain.
Just truth.
"For months," he says, "I replayed everything. Wondering if I could've changed something."
My chest tightens.
"Could you?" I ask.
"No."
Rain slides down my face.
Maybe tears are hiding inside it.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Of dying?" he asks softly.
"No."
I look at the road.
"Of living without him."
The admission feels like stepping off a cliff.
But instead of falling—
His hand wraps around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
Not pulling.
Not trapping.
Just there.
I expect myself to flinch.
I don't.
For the first time in three years, the crossing doesn't feel like a grave.
It feels like a place.
A normal place.
With traffic.
With rain.
With someone standing beside me.
"Rain doesn't take everything," he says quietly.
"Sometimes it brings something too."
I glance at him.
"Like what?"
He hesitates.
"Like second chances."
Second chances.
The words feel fragile.
Like glass.
But for the first time—
I don't hate the rain completely.
It's still cold.
Still heavy.
Still unfair.
But maybe—
Just maybe—
It isn't only about endings.
Maybe this is where something else begins.
And for the first time in years—
I step back from the edge.
Not because I'm healed.
Not because I'm strong.
But because someone stayed.
The rain keeps falling.
But this time—
I don't stand alone.