Chapter 1 : Waiting For The Rain

Whispers in the Rain

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It was one of those afternoons when the sky couldn’t make up its mind. The clouds were thick and heavy, hanging low above the city, making everything look soft and hazy. The kind of day that feels perfect for cozying up in a warm café with a good book. And that’s exactly what Ayan was doing.

Ayan was a 22-year-old writer who lived in his own little world. His quiet corner of the café, “Coffee & Chapters,” had become his sanctuary. There, he could sit for hours with a cup of coffee, writing poetry, letting the world move around him without a care. He never considered himself romantic, but there was something about rainy days that made him think of stories—stories of love, of chance meetings, of fate’s little tricks. He often wondered if his own love story would be as perfect as the ones he wrote.

On this particular rainy day, Ayan was busy scribbling verses in his notebook when the café door swung open with the sound of a small bell. Misha stepped inside, her sky-blue umbrella dripping water as she shook it off. She looked around, clearly uncertain about where to sit, her eyes scanning the room.

She spotted an empty seat by the window, and as she walked toward it, her bag slipped off her shoulder, and a book fell out. The book skidded across the floor, coming to a stop right in front of Ayan’s table. He picked it up without thinking, his eyes catching the title: “P.S. I Still Love You.” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked up at her.

Misha, flustered, walked over, her cheeks slightly pink. “Oops! Looks like my story just decided to roll right over to you.” She chuckled, clearly embarrassed.

Ayan smiled softly, his brown eyes warm. “I guess stories have a way of doing that. They find their own path.”

Misha laughed, the sound like a melody in the quiet café. “I guess you’re right. I’m Misha, by the way. And this is my favorite book.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m a sucker for love stories, you know?”

Ayan leaned back in his chair, still holding the book. “I can tell. This one looks like the kind of story I’d write about… but maybe not live through.”

Misha raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Ayan shrugged. “I guess I’m too much of a realist for all that. I like my poems to be perfect, but I know life isn’t.”

Misha smiled, her eyes sparkling with a playful glint. “Well, maybe life needs a little more imperfection, don’t you think?”

For a moment, Ayan didn’t know how to respond. There was something about her—something genuine and warm—that made him feel lighter, as if the weight of the world had been momentarily lifted. He set the book on the table and nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe life’s little imperfections make it perfect after all.”

The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle, but the café felt warm and inviting. Ayan and Misha sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing stories and laughing over little things. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was something just as sweet—an unexpected connection, a spark that could grow into something more. And as they sat there, the rain outside became the perfect backdrop to their unfolding story.

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