Rain

Rain, Rain, Rain…!? I called out to my cat again, her name was Rain—fitting, perhaps too fitting for a night like this. She blinked at me lazily, her fur faintly glowing under the warm lamplight. The sky was furious outside, pouring its soul across rooftops, down the gutters, and onto the streets that once echoed our laughter.

The monsoon had come early this year, like an unexpected guest crashing through a half-closed door. The winds sang with a strange urgency, and the raindrops drummed a rhythm only the heartbroken could hear.

I picked Rain up and held her close. She purred quietly, her tiny body warm against the cold thoughts that crowded my mind.

10th of June. Her birthday.

Two-fifty miles away.

And yet, I could still hear her laugh in the hush between thunderclaps.

The monsoon always brought us closer. I remember that first rain together — how she danced barefoot on the terrace, arms wide open, face lifted to the skies like she was daring the clouds to love her back.

"You know what's better than umbrellas?" she had said once, tugging me into the downpour, "Getting drenched with someone who doesn't care."

And so we did — got soaked, got silly, shared one umbrella that neither of us used, and laughed until we couldn’t tell the raindrops from our tears.

We'd sit by the window in my room, fingers wrapped around steaming cups of chai, sketching constellations in the misted glass.

The clouds then weren’t grey — they were stories.

They were secrets.

They were safe.

But now…

The window glass was clear.

And empty.

Except for Rain, who pawed at the pane now and then, her whiskers twitching with every flash of lightning.

I scrolled through her event handles again. A photo from two days ago — smiling, holding a cake someone else must’ve brought. Her eyes still curved the same way when she smiled. I paused. Zoomed in. Smiled back. Closed the app.

Outside, the storm began to whisper.

The wild winds settled into sighs.

The rain softened, as if ashamed of its earlier tantrum.

Droplets still traced poetic lines down the glass:

A lover’s tears,

A sky’s confession,

A boy’s monsoon of memories.

I sat by the window again, Rain curled into my lap like a comma in an unfinished sentence.

We both stared out into the clouds, watching them float like old letters never sent.

The world smelled like petrichor and peace.

And for a moment—just a quiet, thunder-less moment—I wasn’t 250 miles away from her.

I was just a boy, beside his cat,

watching the world cry itself calm.