"The Last Rain"

The rain hadn’t stopped since morning. It fell in slow, steady sheets, like the sky itself was mourning.

Ayan stood at the bus stop, hands shoved in his pockets, soaked to the bone. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t cared much about anything since Dev left.

Dev.

The name still stung like salt on an open wound.

They had grown up together—neighbors, classmates, best friends. And eventually, something more.

But only in the spaces between words. Only in the way Ayan would rest his head on Dev’s shoulder during late-night movies, or the way Dev would call him “idiot” when he was worried.

They never said it.

They never had to.

Until it was too late.

Dev was leaving for Canada. A scholarship. A chance at a better life. He told Ayan a month before departure, like it was no big deal.

Ayan remembered that night—how his throat had closed, how he’d nodded like it was fine, like he was proud, like it didn’t shatter him from the inside out.

“I’ll come back,” Dev had said. “It’s not goodbye.”

But they both knew it was.

Ayan never confessed.

He never said, “Don’t go.”

He never said, “I love you.”

And Dev left.

Years passed. Ayan stayed in their hometown, working at his father's old bookstore. He stopped celebrating birthdays. He stopped waiting for texts. For calls. Because they never came.

Until last week.

When he got the letter.

“Ayan,

I’m sorry I disappeared. I wanted to come back. I really did.

But I got sick.

The doctors said it’s late now.

And I don’t have much time left.

If you’re still angry, I understand.

But if you’re not…

Will you meet me? Just once?

17th July. 4 PM.

The old bridge where we carved our names.”

The paper had tear stains.

Ayan read the letter so many times, the folds became scars. Like the ones in his heart.

Today was 17th July.

4:06 PM.

The bridge was empty.

The wind howled. The rain kept falling.

Ayan stood there anyway, soaked, trembling.

And then he saw him.

Dev...

He looked older, thinner, a shadow of the boy Ayan used to know. But those eyes—still soft, still Dev—found him.

“Ayan,” Dev said, voice fragile.

“You’re late,” Ayan whispered.

“I wanted to come earlier,” Dev said. “But my body didn’t cooperate.”

Ayan didn’t speak. His hands were clenched. His jaw tight.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Dev said, his smile broken. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t go without seeing you again.”

The words cracked something inside Ayan. “You left me, Dev. You said you’d come back. You never did.”

“I couldn’t. I was scared. I didn’t know how to face you after everything.”

“I waited for you!” Ayan shouted. “Every single day! You don’t get to disappear and then come back just to say goodbye.”

Dev looked down. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And then Ayan stepped forward.

He pulled Dev into his arms—thin, shaking, dying Dev and held him like he should’ve held him all those years ago.

“I loved you,” Ayan whispered into his shoulder. “I still do.”

“I loved you too,” Dev choked. “I always did. I just... never had the courage to say it.”

The rain soaked them both, but neither moved. For the first time, everything was said

That night, Dev fell asleep in Ayan’s bed. Peaceful. Calm.

He didn’t wake up.

Ayan never married

He never moved

He kept the bookstore alive, just like Dev always loved

He wrote poems on napkins and folded letters he’d never send

But every 17th July, he visited the bridge

Carved beneath the old wood:

A + D \= Always, even if too late.

And on rainy days, he swore he could still feel Dev’s hand in his.

.....

“Some love stories end too soon.

But even in silence, they echo forever.”

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