Tracy....
It started raining just before the last bell.
Not the gentle kind. The heavy, merciless downpour that makes the sky look like it's breaking open.
Most students ran out anyway, bags over their heads, laughter echoing as they disappeared down the narrow dirt road. Some called it a blessing — "rain on a Friday is holy," someone said.
I stayed. So did she.
Laila.
She stood under the walkway, books pressed to her chest, hijab damp at the edges where the wind had reached her. She didn't look at me.
I almost didn't stay either. I almost walked away like nothing was different. But something in the air felt too fragile to ignore. Or maybe I was tired of pretending.
So I sat on the bench opposite her, letting the silence stretch.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then she spoke — soft, uncertain.
"You don't like the rain?"
I turned to her. Surprised, maybe even a little relieved.
"I don't mind it," I said. "I just don't like being caught in it unprepared."
She smiled at that — just a little. The kind of smile you offer someone when you're not sure if it's okay to smile at all.
We didn't say much after that. But we sat together, in the same quiet, watching the rain dance violently over the cracked concrete.
It felt like something was breathing between us. Not a conversation. Not yet.
Just a pause the world allowed.
---
When the rain eased and the village bus finally groaned down the road, she stood up first.
I expected her to walk off — to leave me the way she always did.
But instead, she turned.
"You write, don't you?"
My breath caught.
"Sometimes," I said. "Why?"
She looked at me with something unreadable in her eyes.
"You look like someone who keeps things on paper."
Then she left.
---
I stayed long after the bus had gone.
Thinking about how someone could see so much without really knowing you.
Maybe it wasn't a spark. Maybe it wasn't anything obvious.
But it was something.
And I wasn't sure whether to be grateful…
or afraid.
---