The rain came late that night, as if the sky had waited for me to come home first.
It was soft at first — a gentle tapping against the windows, a cool breeze slipping through the cracks in the old wooden frame of my room. But it grew heavier, more persistent, as though it too had a memory of what this day once meant.
Karthik was asleep in the next room. Mom had given him ginger tea, rubbed Vicks on his chest like she used to when we were little, and stayed by his side till he drifted off.
I stayed up.
Not because I couldn't sleep — but because something was shifting inside me. Like a locked drawer had quietly creaked open, and I didn't know what to do with what I found inside.
Around 1 a.m., I stepped out onto the front porch.
The rain had soaked the streets, leaving behind puddles and that peculiar smell of wet dust. A lone streetlight flickered in the distance. Everything looked quiet. Clean, in a way only post-rain silence can feel.
I sat on the steps, letting the rain touch the edge of my foot. For a moment, I let myself feel proud. I had done something. Changed something. Saved someone.
But then the next thought came:
What else do I need to save?
Because the truth was: this wasn't over.
Karthik was home, yes. But dad was still one bad decision away from losing his job.
My best friend, Arun, still hadn't spoken to me.
And above all, time felt fragile — like it could tear at any second and throw me back into the future I had escaped. Every choice now mattered. Every word I said, every silence I broke, could tilt things.
Was I ready for that?
The rain began to slow. The world glistened under the faint moonlight. And just as I was about to go inside, I heard something — faint, almost too soft to notice.
Laughter.
Not just any laughter. Arun's.
It was coming from down the street. I turned quickly, peeking over the gate.
He and a few others were huddled under the old neighborhood banyan tree, holding umbrellas, passing around a packet of chips, wet but grinning like fools. They hadn't noticed me.
In the old days, I would've walked past. Stayed behind the gate. Let pride and distance win.
But tonight?
I walked out.
"Oi," I called.
They turned. Eyes widened.
One of them whispered, "Is that…?"
Arun blinked. "You okay?"
I shrugged. "You got room for one more idiot?"
For a second, he said nothing. Then he tossed a biscuit packet toward me.
"We were wondering how long you'd sulk."
I caught it.
He made space. "Sit."
That's how the leftover rain found us — not apart, but together. No grand forgiveness. No long explanations. Just soaked clothes, half-shared snacks, and a joke about how we'd all probably catch colds tomorrow.
And for the first time in weeks — both past and present — I laughed.
Not because everything was fine.
But because maybe… it could be.