Story About You And Me
By Ayush Agarwal
“Some stories don’t end with a goodbye. They just stop showing up — until the rain brings them back.”
Chapter 1 — The First Rain
They say the first rain carries memories of a thousand forgotten summers. For me, it carried you. That evening, the city was painted in shades of blue and gold. The streets shimmered under streetlights that fought against the drizzle. I stood at the corner of the café — umbrella in hand, jacket zipped up, pretending not to wait. But my heart… it waited anyway. You had texted, “Just five minutes.” Five minutes — a phrase that could stretch into eternity when it came from you. I remember watching droplets slide down the umbrella fabric, the way the world blurred behind the curtain of rain. Everyone hurried past — strangers chasing time. And then, there you were — hair wet, smile breaking through the mist like sunlight between clouds. You waved. I froze. You didn’t walk toward me — you ran. Half-drenched, breathless, radiant. You said, “Sorry, I got caught near the signal!” I wanted to say something funny, but all that came out was, “You look like the rain itself.” You laughed — that kind of laugh that fills empty spaces inside people. We walked together, sharing my umbrella, and just like that, the city didn’t feel so lonely anymore. You talked about how you loved the rain — how it made you feel like everything could start over. I didn’t tell you then, but that’s exactly how I felt meeting you. Later, when we reached the bus stop, you said softly, “You know what’s funny? I almost didn’t come today.” I turned to you. “Why?” You shrugged, brushing a drop from your eyelashes. “Because I was scared. I didn’t want to ruin something that hadn’t even started yet.” You left me with that sentence and a smile that followed me all the way home. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The sound of rain tapped against my window, whispering your name. And I knew — this wasn’t just a story. It was the beginning of our story.
Chapter 2 — The Coffee That Went Cold
It became a ritual — our evening meetings under the same sky, same umbrella, same café by the corner. You always ordered caramel cappuccino. I ordered black coffee — you said it tasted like burnt thoughts, and I said you sweetened the air around us enough. You rolled your eyes every time, but your smile said you didn’t mind. The world outside never stopped raining that month. Maybe that’s why I started believing that love was seasonal — something that grew in the rain, bloomed in laughter, and lingered in the warmth of a shared silence. We talked about dreams, music, heartbreak, the things we never told anyone. You told me about your fear of growing old alone. I told you about mine — growing old without meaning. One day, you arrived late — no smile, no rush. Just silence. “What happened?” I asked. “Nothing,” you said. But your eyes — they said everything. We sat for hours, saying nothing, while our coffees went cold. The rain outside turned heavier, blurring the windows, like the sky itself was trying to keep our secrets. Before you left, you whispered, “Promise me something. If someday I disappear, don’t look for me in places — look for me in moments.” I didn’t understand then. But I nodded anyway. That night, I walked home alone under the same umbrella, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was enough.
Chapter 3 — The Day You Didn’t Come
The rain had stopped, but the world still felt soaked in memories. I reached the café early, like always. Ordered your usual — caramel cappuccino. Waited. Checked the time. Waited again. You didn’t come. Hours passed. The chair across from me stayed empty, like a silent accusation. The cup grew cold again — untouched, unfinished, unwanted. I called. No answer. I texted. Seen. The rain returned the next evening, and I waited again — this time without coffee, without hope, but with the same umbrella. You never came. That’s when I realized — some stories don’t end with a goodbye. They just stop showing up.
Chapter 4 — The Empty Umbrella
Days passed. Weeks blurred. The rain still came and went — but without you, it didn’t sound the same. The umbrella I used to hold for both of us now hung by my door, dry and untouched. It wasn’t the rain I missed — it was the reason I used to walk through it. Everywhere I went, I saw something that reminded me of you. The pink sleeve you used to roll up twice. The caramel scent of your coffee. Even the song the café played every evening — it felt like the universe had chosen to haunt me gently. I tried convincing myself that you’d come back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next rain. But tomorrows started stacking up, and hope began to sound like a cruel echo. One evening, as I walked home under the city lights, I saw a girl standing alone in the rain — no umbrella, no hurry. For a heartbeat, I thought it was you. But when she turned, her face was unfamiliar. That night, I opened the umbrella again — not to stay dry, but to remember. To remember how it felt to share something small, something simple, something ours.
Chapter 5 — The Letters I Never Sent
It’s strange — how you can miss someone who’s everywhere in your mind but nowhere in your world. I started writing letters to you. Not to send — just to breathe. They began as memories, then turned into apologies. “I should have told you how much that rain meant to me.” “I should have stopped you from walking away.” “I should have said your name louder before it drowned in silence.” Some nights, I tore them apart. Other nights, I folded them carefully and kept them in a box — next to the umbrella, still unopened. I visited the café once more. The barista recognized me. “Alone today?” she asked softly. I nodded. She smiled the kind of smile people use when they don’t want to make others cry. That day, I realized — love doesn’t end when people leave. It lingers in empty chairs, old playlists, half-drunk cups, and the quiet way you whisper someone’s name into the dark. And somewhere in that silence, I began to write again. Not for you, not about you — but because of you.
Chapter 6 — The Second Monsoon
The seasons turned. The sky learned to smile again. And just when I’d stopped waiting, the rain came back — soft, hesitant, almost apologetic. It was evening. I was crossing the old street, holding the same umbrella, when I heard someone call my name. I turned. It was you. You stood there — a little older, a little different, but still you. Same eyes, same voice, same quiet that made time stop. For a moment, we both forgot how to breathe. The city disappeared. The sound of traffic faded, replaced by the familiar rhythm of rain. You smiled, almost nervously. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” I laughed — not because it was funny, but because it hurt in the sweetest way. “I never left,” I said. We didn’t rush to speak. We just stood under the umbrella again — the same one that had waited longer than both of us. And for the first time in years, the rain didn’t feel lonely.
Chapter 7 — The Things We Didn’t Say
We found shelter again — under the same old café roof. Time had changed everything and nothing at all. The walls were still painted in coffee stains and memories, and the rain still sang the same familiar tune. You sat across from me, tracing circles on the table, avoiding my eyes. I wanted to say a thousand things — where were you, why did you leave, did you miss me — but silence was safer. After a long pause, you whispered, “I had to go. My father got sick… I didn’t know how to tell you. And when I finally could, it felt like too much time had already passed.” The rain outside slowed, as if listening. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to say that you owed me a goodbye. But when I looked at you — tired, fragile, real — I realized that love wasn’t about blame. It was about understanding what the other person never said out loud. You looked at me then — the same way you used to before you’d laugh — and said, “I thought you’d moved on.” I smiled, “I tried. But every time it rained, it felt like you were still here.” And for the first time in years, we laughed. Softly. Together.
Chapter 8 — The Bridge Between Then and Now
We started meeting again — not like before, but like two people learning to walk through old streets without tripping over old memories. You’d text sometimes, “Coffee?” and I’d always say yes, even when I shouldn’t have. There was comfort in our awkwardness, a quiet grace in pretending we were just friends when the air around us said otherwise. One day, we walked to the riverside — a bridge we’d never crossed before. The rain was light, barely touching us. You looked at me and said, “Do you ever think about what could’ve been?” I hesitated. “Every day. But maybe we were meant to find each other twice — once to fall, once to understand.” You nodded, eyes glistening — not from tears, but from everything that words couldn’t hold. Sometimes, the most beautiful thing about love is realizing it didn’t end — it just changed its shape.
Chapter 9 — The Promise of Tomorrow
It was late evening. We sat by the café window again — two cups of coffee between us, both half-finished, both perfect. The rain outside had turned golden under the streetlights. You leaned forward, your voice softer than the sound of raindrops. “Do you think we’ll ever get it right this time?” I looked at you — really looked — and saw not the girl I once lost, but the woman who found her way back. “I don’t know,” I said, “but I think love isn’t about getting it right. It’s about choosing to stay, even when everything goes wrong.” You smiled, and it felt like the universe exhaled. “Then let’s stay,” you whispered. We sat there, listening to the rain write our story again — word by word, drop by drop.
Chapter 10 — The Last Rain
Months passed. The world moved on. So did we — together. We still fought sometimes — about late replies, unspoken fears, burnt toast. But every time it rained, we remembered to slow down. To hold the same umbrella. To walk a little closer. One night, you asked, “Do you still write letters you’ll never send?” I smiled. “No. Now I write stories you can read.” You laughed — the same way you did the first day we met. Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, your hand found mine. The rain began again, soft and endless. And this time, it didn’t sound like longing. It sounded like home.
“Love isn’t about forever — it’s about finding someone who makes even the rain feel like home.”
0 Comments