They say the rain hides tears well. Maybe that’s why I didn’t move when the storm poured down that night, drenching me to the bone. My thoughts were heavier than the sky itself, and I wanted to disappear in the downpour.
But then he appeared.
“Are you crazy? You’ll get sick out here,” he said, his voice sharp but his hand steady as he held his umbrella over me. His eyes—dark, intense, yet soft in the edges—met mine. That was the first time I saw him properly, though we’d shared the same hallways for months.
I wanted to answer, to tell him to leave me alone, but no words came out. Instead, my silence hung between us, louder than the rain.
He sighed, slipping the umbrella into my hand before stepping back into the storm himself. “If you want to be stubborn, fine. But at least… don’t freeze.” And with that, he walked away, shoulders soaked but steps steady, like someone who carried storms inside him too.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. His face lingered in my mind—why would he give me the umbrella and choose to get wet himself? People didn’t do that. Not for me.
The next day, I returned the umbrella. He only raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, you actually know how to talk. Good to know.”
I rolled my eyes, but deep down, something shifted. He wasn’t just a boy with an umbrella anymore. He was the boy who saw me when I wanted to disappear.
And that’s where everything began.
