vintage
Vintage beauty and its beautiful history; a look at old-school hairstyles, iconic makeup trends and the evolution of beauty standards from then 'til now.
A love written in Rain ☔. Content Warning.
The rain fell softly at first, a whisper against the leaves and rooftops, then heavier, until the sky itself seemed to pour its soul onto the world. On a quiet street lined with shuttered shops and glowing lamps, two figures stood under a flickering bus stop shelter—so close, and yet on the edge of something vast. Amaya hugged her sketchbook to her chest, droplets sliding down its spine. She glanced sideways, pretending not to notice the boy beside her. He was dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead, wearing a thin hoodie that had long since given up on keeping him dry. But there was something about the way he stood—calm, hands in his pockets, eyes watching the rain as if it spoke a language only he could understand. She had seen him before—on this street, near this very stop. Always alone. Always with that quiet weight in his gaze. "You didn’t bring an umbrella either?" she finally asked, her voice barely louder than the rain. He looked at her and smiled slightly. "I like the rain." She blinked. "Most people complain about it." "Most people miss what it says," he replied. His voice was soft, not shy, but deliberate, like someone who didn’t often speak unless it mattered. “What does it say to you?” she asked, surprised by her own boldness. “That sometimes… things need to fall apart to make space for something new.” She didn’t respond at first. Her fingers tightened around the sketchbook. “That’s poetic.” “I read a lot,” he admitted, then added, “And I think too much.” Amaya gave a soft laugh. “I draw too much. So maybe we’re both hopeless.” He turned to her fully then, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light of the streetlamp. “What do you draw?” “Everything. People, mostly. Faces. Expressions. I try to capture stories in the lines.” “Have you drawn me?” She blushed. “No.” He raised an eyebrow, a raindrop sliding down his cheek like a tear. “But you’ve noticed me.” She looked away, hiding a smile. “Maybe.” They stood in silence again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of things unsaid, full of the heartbeat of rain and the quiet hum of two people slowly falling into something neither had planned for. “I’m Kai,” he said after a pause. “Amaya.” “Pretty name.” “You, too.” She instantly regretted it and laughed nervously. “I mean—your name. Not you—well, I mean—” Kai chuckled, a warm sound that melted the tension like sunlight through fog. A bolt of lightning lit the sky, and thunder followed close behind. Amaya jumped slightly. “Don’t like storms?” Kai asked. “They make me feel small,” she admitted. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said. “To remind us that we’re not meant to carry everything.” There was a silence again, but this time, it was comfortable. Familiar. “I could draw you,” she offered suddenly, as if needing to say something before the moment passed. His brows lifted. “Right now?” She nodded. “If the rain keeps us here a while… why not?” She opened her sketchbook, found a blank page, and pulled a pencil from behind her ear. Kai sat on the bench beneath the shelter, tilting his head slightly, watching her with curiosity. As she sketched, the rain wrapped around them like a curtain, closing them off from the rest of the world. The lines came quickly—his jaw, the gentle arc of his mouth, the thoughtful eyes. She captured the vulnerability in his posture, the poetry in his silence. “Done,” she said softly, tearing the page from her book and handing it to him. He looked at it, stunned. “This… this is me?” “It’s how I see you.” He stared at the portrait, and then at her, something unspoken shining in his gaze. “Thank you,” he said. “This feels like… someone finally saw me.” “I did,” she whispered. “Even before today.” The rain began to slow, drops becoming gentler, like the last notes of a song. Kai stood, holding the drawing like it was fragile. “Would you… maybe want to walk in the rain with me?” Amaya smiled, slipping her sketchbook back under her arm. “Only if we don’t rush.” They stepped out from the shelter, side by side, as the rain softened into a mist around them. And on that quiet street, under the watchful glow of fading clouds, two stories merged—written not
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