The first rain of the season has a strange way of making strangers feel seen.
At the medical college, the monsoon had arrived with grey skies, cool winds, and the scent of wet earth curling through the corridors of the academic block. For most students, it was just another day of lectures, assignments, and evening chai plans.
For Meera, it was just another day of silence.
Meera Joshi, a first-year MBBS student, was the kind of girl people rarely noticed. She attended every lecture, sat on the third bench by the window, took neat notes with different colored pens, and left before anyone could attempt small talk. She wasn't unfriendly. She simply didn't know how to belong. Conversations felt like rooms without doors.
Aarav Mehta, on the other hand, belonged everywhere.
From day one, he had been impossible to miss — loud laughter, easy smiles, a five-member gang that followed him like satellites orbiting a sun. He remembered seniors' names, cracked jokes with professors, and somehow knew every chai tapri within walking distance of campus. Where Meera moved like a shadow, Aarav walked like a festival.
And yet, every day, they followed the same routine.
Morning lectures. Anatomy lab. Biochemistry notes. Afternoon yawns. And at 4 PM sharp, the dispersal.
That evening, the sky had turned an aching shade of grey. Rain fell in hesitant drizzles, not heavy enough to run through, not light enough to ignore. Students rushed toward the gate, laughing and shielding their heads with bags, notebooks, and lab coats.
Aarav and his group dashed downstairs, already planning their usual chai break.
Meera stood alone at the staircase landing.
She had forgotten her umbrella.
She watched the rain instead.
The grey clouds, the rhythm of droplets hitting the pavement, the distant rumble of thunder — they pulled her somewhere she didn't like to visit.
She was six the last time rain had felt like this.
A rainy evening. A phone call. An accident.
And just like that, her parents were gone.
The world had continued. The rain had continued.
She had grown up at her uncle's house, tolerated more than welcomed. Her aunt never said cruel words directly — but silence can bruise louder than insults. At sixteen, the message became clear: it was time to move out.
So she did.
With the savings her parents had left behind, she built herself a quiet life. A hostel room. A steel cupboard. A dream of becoming a doctor — perhaps to save someone else from the kind of loss she had known too early.
A drop of rainwater from the staircase railing slipped onto her hand.
Or perhaps it was a tear.
She quickly wiped her cheek, annoyed at herself. She didn't cry. Not anymore.
She turned to leave.
A creaking sound echoed behind her — the classroom door.
She stiffened.
Aarav stepped out, running a hand through his hair.
"Um… I just forgot my wallet," he muttered to no one in particular — until their eyes met.
For a brief second, the world paused.
Meera blinked first. "It's okay," she said softly, though she wasn't sure what she was reassuring him about.
They walked out together — he a few steps ahead, she trailing behind like usual.
At the entrance of the academic building, the rain was still steady.
He glanced sideways. "You a day scholar?"
She shook her head. "No… hosteller."
He nodded thoughtfully. Then his gaze shifted to the sky, then back to her empty hands.
"You don't have an umbrella."
"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.
He smirked. "Nobody stands on the staircase watching rain for that long unless they're stuck."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"It's okay," she replied. "I'll just wait till it slows down."
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, without warning, he slipped off his black leather jacket and gently placed it over her head like a makeshift shield.
The faint scent of cologne and rain surrounded her.
"Here," he said casually. "Return it tomorrow."
Before she could protest, he had already stepped into the rain.
"Bye!" he called, sprinting toward the chai tapri where his friends were shouting his name.
Meera stood frozen.
The rain continued to fall, tapping softly against the leather above her head.
For the first time since joining college, someone had noticed her.
Not out of pity. Not out of obligation.
Just… noticed.
She watched him run, laughing as the rain soaked him completely, his friends pulling him into their chaotic circle.
Something unfamiliar bloomed in her chest.
Warm. Fragile. Hopeful.
Clutching the jacket closer around her shoulders, Meera walked back to her hostel room — the fabric still carrying his warmth.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, for the first time in years, her world didn't feel entirely cold.