Rain Rain, Stay Another Day

"Do you smile when you text me?" I asked her one evening, casually leaning back on my bed, the glow of my phone illuminating the dimly lit room. Outside, the rain was relentless, drumming against the windows like a persistent thought refusing to fade.

Her reply came after a brief pause. "Sometimes. Idk. I don’t notice."

I stared at the screen, her words as casual as a shrug, but they carried a weight I couldn’t quite shake. I imagined her, maybe sitting by her window, her hair tied back, her face illuminated by the same glow of her phone. Did she smile? Did her lips curve just slightly as she typed? Or was it all mechanical, a reflex devoid of feeling?

Before I could dwell too much, another message popped up. "Udhar baarish thi aaj?" (Was it raining there today?)

Her question felt like a shift in the conversation, a deliberate change of course. But I knew better. Rain wasn’t just small talk. It was a veil, a way to say something without saying it.

"It's raining right now," I typed back. "You good?"

I waited, my fingers hovering over the screen. I knew her well enough to recognize that rain wasn’t a coincidence in her texts. It was always a metaphor, an unspoken language.

"People talk about rain when they’re sad," I added, testing the waters.

Her reply was swift. "It was a train of thought."

I stared at her words, trying to trace the invisible tracks of her thoughts. Rain wasn’t just falling outside; it was pouring through her, hidden in the clouds of her mind, spilling over into her words. I wanted to ask more, to push further, but something told me to let it be.

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x

x

We were meeting the next day. The rain had left the city washed clean, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. When I saw her, she looked like she always did—calm, collected, with that faint air of mystery she carried like a second skin. But her eyes… they were different today. They held a quiet storm, a restlessness she couldn’t quite hide.

As we walked, she reached out and took my hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, but something about the way her fingers intertwined with mine felt different. Her grip was firm, deliberate, like she needed to anchor herself.

I didn’t know what to do. Her hand in mine felt like a question I didn’t have the answer to. We walked in silence, the rhythm of our steps matching the faint drizzle that had started again, the kind that kissed your skin without soaking it.

"You’ve been quiet," she said finally, her voice breaking the silence.

"So have you," I replied, glancing at her. "What’s on your mind?"

She hesitated, her thumb brushing against the back of my hand. "Do you ever feel like… like the rain knows more than we do?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

She looked up at the sky, her expression thoughtful. "It’s like… it sees everything. It falls on everyone, no matter who they are or what they’re going through. It doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t judge. It just… falls."

I nodded, letting her words sink in. "And we’re all just standing under it, pretending it’s not soaking us through."

She smiled faintly, her gaze still on the sky. "Exactly."

For a while, we just walked, the rain a quiet companion to our thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, she stopped and turned to me.

"Do you think we’re like the rain?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.

"How do you mean?"

She shrugged, a small, almost shy gesture. "Always falling, always moving, but never really staying anywhere."

I thought about her words, about how they mirrored the way we’d been with each other—always circling, never quite landing. "Maybe," I said finally. "But maybe the rain isn’t meant to stay. Maybe it’s meant to remind us of something."

"Like what?"

"Like how to let go," I said, surprising even myself with the answer. "How to fall without worrying where we’ll land."

She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she stepped closer, her hand tightening in mine.

"You make it sound so simple," she said softly.

"It’s not," I admitted. "But maybe that’s the point."

Later, as we sat under the awning of a small café, watching the rain blur the world outside, I asked her again, "Do you smile when you text me?"

She looked at me, her lips curving into a soft, almost secretive smile. "Maybe," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

And for the first time, I didn’t need any more than that. The rain kept falling, but for once, it felt like we’d found a place to stay, even if just for a moment.