Rain in September: Her Side

Rain in September: Her Side

By Mahboob Khan

The first time I noticed him, he was already sitting there.

Across from me, two seats ahead. Just close enough for me to catch the shape of his profile in the reflection on the bus window.

He never stared. Not in the way some men do—loud and entitled, like your space belongs to them the moment they see you. No. He watched quietly. Not out of hunger, but something gentler. Like curiosity. Like he was waiting for something he didn’t know how to name.

I appreciated that.

September had just started when he appeared. The days were still warm, but the mornings were sharp with cold. The kind of chill that makes you clutch your scarf tighter and breathe slower. I always wore the cream-colored one. It was my mother’s. Soft and frayed at the ends, like everything I carried from her.

I don’t know why I chose that seat near the back every day. Maybe because it felt safe. Or maybe I liked watching the city pass by in slow motion, blurred by raindrops on the glass.

He didn’t know this, but I used to make up stories about him.

One day he was a painter with quiet hands. Another, a teacher who read too much poetry. I imagined what his voice might sound like. Steady, maybe. Or a little unsure when he laughed.

But I never spoke to him.

I was too tired for conversation. Not just physically. Emotionally. The kind of tired that makes silence feel like protection.

There was a heaviness I carried in those weeks—something too personal to wear openly, but too real to ignore. My father had been sick. Not the kind of sick you come back from. And I had become the designated strong one in the family. The update-sender. The rock. The planner. The one who remembered appointments and watched his hands shake as he pretended not to be afraid.

But every morning, on that bus, I got fifteen minutes to just be me.

And somehow, he became part of that.

He never wore headphones. Never scrolled on his phone. He’d just sit there, hands resting on his knees, sometimes rubbing his thumb against his palm like it grounded him.

He always looked out the window first. Then he’d glance toward me.

Never long enough to be awkward.

Just long enough to be known.

I think we both felt it—that quiet rhythm between strangers. That gentle, wordless bond built not on conversation, but consistency. There was comfort in knowing someone was showing up, just because.

Then came November.

And the night I got the call.

My father had passed in his sleep.

That morning, I didn’t take the bus.

I didn’t take it the next day either. Or the next.

I didn’t think anyone would notice.

But I missed it. Him. That quiet moment of peace I got before the day swallowed me whole.

When I finally returned, I couldn’t sit by the window.

I couldn’t bear the routine of it. It felt too sacred now, too fragile to disturb. So I sat near the front. And when I saw him—same seat, same glance—I knew I had to say something. But words felt too small.

So I wrote a letter.

It took me hours. I rewrote it five times. I didn’t know his name, or if he’d even read it. But I needed him to know: he mattered. His silence, his presence—it had been a comfort I hadn’t known I needed.

When the bus slowed near my stop, I walked straight to him. I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Not fear. Just... stillness. Like a moment holding its breath.

I handed him the envelope.

Smiled.

And left.

Sometimes I wonder if he read it.

Sometimes I wonder if he kept it.

I don’t ride that bus anymore. I don’t even live in the city. But whenever it rains—quiet, persistent September rain—I think about him.

And I hope, wherever he is, he still remembers me the way I remember him.

I also uploaded His POV go and check it out