Rain meant different things to different people.
For some, it was the scent of soil, of home, of chai and samosas under a tin roof. For others, it was inconvenience—wet socks, sticky seats, traffic jams. For Aarav Mehta, the rain was memory. It didn't cleanse. It preserved. It reminded him of things he didn't want to remember.
Like the day his brother left and never came back.
He never told anyone that. Not even his diary.
---
The Monday after Suhani and Kabir's arrival brought a sudden chill. It was still August, but the weather turned moody, the way adolescent hearts often did—unpredictable, wild, and easily misunderstood.
The bell for first period had just rung when Suhani entered, hair wet and clinging to her cheeks, her bag held above her head.
The class was already half-filled. She walked in silently, not caring to shake off the water. Her eyes were unreadable as always, but Aarav caught the slight tremble in her fingers.
Aarav didn't know why he noticed that.
He was about to look away when their eyes met.
She blinked.
Then smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't bright. But it was real. Honest. The kind of smile people gave you when they weren't trying to prove anything.
"Late again, Ray?" the teacher asked with a mild frown.
"The auto broke down," she replied, not apologetic but not defensive either.
The teacher sighed and motioned toward her seat.
She walked past Aarav without a word, but as she sat down, her wet bag brushed against his pants. He flinched from the cold.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"It's fine," he said, without looking.
And then, after a pause: "You should dry off."
"I like the cold," she said, pulling a novel from her bag.
"Even when it soaks you?"
She turned to him, water still dripping from her hair onto her collarbone.
"Better than feeling nothing."
Aarav blinked.
That was the first time she startled him—not with drama, not with noise. But with a sentence that sounded like it came from his own mind.
---
Kabir, meanwhile, had become the unofficial prince of the classroom.
He high-fived everyone in the morning. He complimented the biology teacher on his "legendary sideburns." He remembered everyone's names and favorite cricket players. And somehow, everyone liked him.
Everyone but Aarav.
"He's performing," Aarav said during lunch.
"So?" Suhani replied, unwrapping a small tiffin of moong dal chilla.
"So it's fake."
"Does it matter if it's fake, if it makes people feel good?"
Aarav paused. Then: "Yes. Because it doesn't last."
She didn't argue. She simply took a bite and said, "Maybe you should try performing a little."
"Why?"
"Because some people don't see past silence."
Aarav opened his mouth to respond, but Kabir dropped down beside them at that very moment, holding his lunch tray like a trophy.
"Mind if I interrupt the brooding session?"
"You already did," Aarav muttered.
"Awesome," Kabir grinned. "I love being annoying."
Suhani chuckled softly.
Kabir leaned forward and tapped Aarav's notebook.
"You still writing poetry in that?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Thoughts."
"Sounds dangerous."
"It is."
Kabir tilted his head. "Do you always talk like an anime protagonist?"
"Do you always act like one?"
Suhani coughed to cover her laugh.
The tension was paper-thin, taut with unsaid things. But for some reason, none of them moved. They stayed there—sharing stale sandwiches and silent stares as the rain kept tapping on the windows, like a story trying to write itself.
---
By Thursday, the seating arrangement had shifted.
Aarav still sat by the window. Suhani was in front of him. Kabir, by some cosmic joke or strategic mischief, now sat diagonally to them. The trio formed an accidental triangle of contradictions.
Suhani: quiet, poetic, emotionally transparent but mysterious.
Kabir: loud, charming, grounded but hiding something beneath the smiles.
Aarav: distant, logical, deep—but too afraid to feel.
It was the perfect storm waiting to happen.
---
That week's assignment was to submit a creative piece for the school magazine. Most wrote poems, a few wrote stories, and others copied something from Google.
Aarav hadn't written anything.
He stared at the blank page for hours. But every sentence felt like a lie.
Suhani slid a sheet onto his desk.
A poem.
Delicate cursive. Ink-smudged corners. A scent of rain.
> "You think silence is safety,
But it's only a cage made of glass.
You sit in it, still and clean,
While the world bleeds past."
He looked up.
"What is this?"
"My entry," she said. "Or maybe a mirror."
Aarav didn't smile, but his hand tightened slightly around the paper.
"You're good," he said.
"You're better," she replied without hesitation.
He turned to his notebook.
And for the first time since Class 8, he began to write without fear.
---
The next day, the teacher asked for volunteers to present their pieces aloud.
Kabir stood without waiting.
"Mine's a bit weird," he said. "But I'll go first."
He read a letter. Not a poem. Not a story. A letter to his younger self.
It was messy, informal, filled with jokes and slang. But it hit something in the room no one expected.
> "You'll feel like faking it is easier. It is. But it's also lonely."
"You'll hate your face some days. That's okay. Everyone does."
"You'll meet people who'll understand you—let them."
When he finished, the room was quiet.
Even Aarav was still.
---
That evening, it rained again.
Harder this time. No drizzle. Just sheets of water crashing against the city like it wanted to drown every lie ever spoken.
Aarav stayed back after school. Said he had work, but really, he just wanted to think.
Suhani appeared by the door, umbrella in hand, wet strands framing her face.
"You look like a tragic villain," she said.
"Then why are you here?"
She stepped closer.
"Because tragic villains usually have the most interesting conversations."
Aarav looked away.
"I didn't mean to be this way."
"I know."
"I used to… care. I used to think every mark, every praise—it meant something."
"What changed?"
He hesitated.
"My brother," he said finally. "He was perfect. He did everything right. One day he said he was going to Kota for IIT prep. He never came back."
Silence.
Then, Suhani sat down beside him, pulling her knees up.
"My cousin... she was the best dancer in her school. Top in everything. One day she stopped showing up. We only found her diary after."
They didn't need to say the words.
Some pain, when named, loses its shape. But when shared in silence, it becomes understood.
They sat there until the rain softened.
Then she stood, held the umbrella over both of them, and said, "Walk me home?"
Aarav nodded.
As they stepped out, water splashing around their feet, she said something that stayed with him for the rest of the year.
"You can't bring someone back by stopping your life. All it does is bury two people instead of one."
---
That night, Aarav wrote one sentence in his notebook:
> "Maybe healing begins the moment someone walks with you in the rain and doesn't ask you to smile."