The sky over Delhi cracked with thunder, and the air was thick with the smell of rain-drenched earth. The monsoon had arrived — not gently, but with a furious downpour that drove people under canopies, halted traffic, and smudged the skyline into watercolor streaks.
Amara stood beneath the old banyan tree outside the university gate, holding a faded red umbrella that barely protected her from the sideways rain. She was never the kind to carry one, but today she'd borrowed it from the hostel just in case. Maybe, deep down, she was hoping the rain would bring something more than wet clothes and slippery floors.
And then it did.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked from behind.
She turned, startled. A boy—no, a man—stood there, tall and lean, drenched despite his attempt at shielding himself with a leather-bound folder. His hair clung to his forehead, and raindrops lined his jaw like dewdrops on a petal.
