Petrichor.

It was never much to look at. Just a weary bus stop — two fractured seats, a battered tin roof surrendering to rust, and a flickering tube light that fought the dusk more out of habit than purpose.

She disliked it, always did.

But somehow, we always ended up there. Six o’clock sharp. No calls. No confirmations. It was understood.

That evening, the rain arrived early. I was already leaning against the pole when she appeared — half-drenched, breathless, clutching her canvas bag like it might dissolve if it soaked through.

She looked annoyed, of course, but when her eyes met mine, she let out that small, reluctant laugh. The kind that slipped out despite herself. The kind that, without fail, made the whole world feel less heavy — if only for a moment.

“You’ll fall sick,” she said, flicking strands of wet hair from her face.

“You’re late,” I replied, even though she wasn’t.

Neither of us meant what we said. We never did. It was never about the words.

We sat there, saying little, watching the buses come and go as if we were passengers of a different kind — ones with nowhere to be, no timetables to follow.

The petrichor was strong that day — sharp, earthy, mingling with the scent of wet iron from the rusted roof. She shifted uncomfortably, pulling her kurta tighter, as if she could will herself away from the dampness.

Her fingers played with the strap of her bag. I noticed. I always noticed. It was her tell — whenever something sat on the tip of her tongue, she’d fidget with that worn-out strap.

And then, without warning, she said it.

“I won’t come tomorrow.”

No buildup. No faltering voice. Just that. Simple.

Like she was informing me about the weather.

I sat there, blinking, the words hanging between us, carried softly by the drizzle. I didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. I just... sat.

Eventually, a bus rolled in. She stood, adjusted her bag, and left.

I stayed long after the rain quieted, watching the water creep along the cracked pavement, watching people board and leave like it was just another day.

And now, years later, whenever it rains, I still pass by.

Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I sit.

And every time, without fail — I hear her voice again.

“You’ll fall sick.”

And I smile. Not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because I don’t want it to stop.