When the Rains Whispered Her Name The rain didn’t knock gently that evening. It barged in — unapologetic and loud — drenching the city in a restless melancholy. The kind of rain that didn’t ask for your permission to bring old memories along. And somewhere in the middle of honking cars, fogged-up windows, and wet pavements… I saw her. Again. No, she wasn’t there. Not physically. But her name echoed every time a raindrop hit the sidewalk. As if the sky was whispering her back into my life. I had just entered my favorite café — the one tucked behind the row of dying bookstores at Church Street. A quiet place. Always smelled like burnt espresso and damp pages. It used to be our spot. Mine and Aanya’s. I ordered the same thing I always did: black coffee, two sugars, no milk. She used to laugh at that. “You’re such a contradiction,” she’d say, stirring her creamy latte, “sweet on the inside but pretending to be all dark and broody.” God, I hated how right she was. I took my coffee and settl...
When the Rains Whispered Her Name
The rain didn’t knock gently that evening. It barged in — unapologetic and loud — drenching the city in a restless melancholy. The kind of rain that didn’t ask for your permission to bring old memories along. And somewhere in the middle of honking cars, fogged-up windows, and wet pavements… I saw her.
Again.
No, she wasn’t there. Not physically. But her name echoed every time a raindrop hit the sidewalk. As if the sky was whispering her back into my life.
I had just entered my favorite café — the one tucked behind the row of dying bookstores at Church Street. A quiet place. Always smelled like burnt espresso and damp pages. It used to be our spot. Mine and Aanya’s.
I ordered the same thing I always did: black coffee, two sugars, no milk. She used to laugh at that. “You’re such a contradiction,” she’d say, stirring her creamy latte, “sweet on the inside but pretending to be all dark and broody.”
God, I hated how right she was.
I took my coffee and settled into the corner seat — our seat. It still had that tiny chip on the table edge, the one she once pretended was the Grand Canyon during our very first pretend-date. We were 23 then. Young. Reckless. And full of stories we hadn’t lived yet.
The seat across me was empty now. And yet, it wasn’t. I could still see her smirk when I made a bad joke. Hear her fake gasps when I told her I’d never seen The Notebook. Feel her fingers tracing circles on the coffee mug when she got nervous. The ghosts of her gestures haunted everything.
Funny how memories never ask before taking up space.
Outside, the rain kept pouring. People ran under umbrellas, couples huddled close, cabs splashed water as they swerved. And here I was — stuck in a moment from years ago. Wondering if she still looked up at the sky when it rained. Wondering if she still hated the cold. Wondering if she ever thought of me the way I couldn’t stop thinking of her.
I pulled out my phone. No new messages. Her contact was still there. Aanya – Do Not Text.
A stupid name I had saved to protect myself from… myself.
It had been two years since we broke up. No dramatic fights. No final screaming match. Just… silence. The kind that creeps in when two people stop trying.
“Maybe we’re too similar,” she had once said. “Two storms can’t make a home, Aryan.”
But storms do make stories.
And mine still began with her.
I was about to leave the café when it happened. That familiar voice.
“Aryan?”
I turned. Slowly. Like my neck knew what it would see but my heart didn’t want to believe it.
There she was.
Aanya.
Her hair was shorter, curled slightly at the ends. She wore a blue overcoat that was too big for her, sleeves covering her fingers like she was hiding from the world. But her eyes… they were exactly the same. Warm. Tired. Searching.
She smiled. Awkward. Unsure.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied, wondering if the universe was drunk or just playing a cruel joke.
She glanced at the seat across from me.
“Is this taken?”
I shook my head.
And just like that, she sat. Across from me. Like time hadn’t passed. Like she hadn’t left. Like my heart hadn’t spent two years trying to forget what it meant to feel full.
We talked.
Not about the big things. Not about the break-up or the distance or the promises that evaporated. We talked about books. Music. The weather. Her new job. My failed startup. The price of coffee.
It was small talk. But it carried weight. Like every sentence was sitting on top of a thousand unsaid things.
Then she said something that froze me.
“I come here every year. Same day. Same time. Just in case.”
My coffee tasted different suddenly.
“In case what?” I asked, my voice barely there.
She looked at me. Really looked.
“In case you remembered too.”
The rain outside softened.
Time didn’t pause. It exhaled.
We didn’t kiss. There were no dramatic violins. No sudden "I love yous."
But we sat there.
Two old storms. Sharing a quiet.
Maybe the rain wasn’t whispering her name.
Maybe it was always mine it carried. Back to her.
(The End)
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