The boy I met

"The Boy I Met Under the Rain"
It was one of those days where the sky couldn’t make up its mind—sunlight had flirted with the morning, but by afternoon, clouds had rolled in like an army, dark and brooding. I hadn't brought an umbrella. I rarely did. Maybe part of me liked the idea of being caught in the rain—it always felt cinematic, like life was pausing just for me

The rain started just as I crossed the street near the old bookstore on Main. Fat drops at first, scattered like warning shots. Then a downpour. As the world faded into gray, I ducked under the narrow overhang outside the closed bakery and tightened my jacket around me. And that’s when I saw him.

He was standing at the corner, soaked already, no umbrella either, but he didn’t look bothered. His dark hair clung to his forehead, his jacket sagged heavy with water, but he stood still, looking straight ahead as if the rain didn’t exist.
He glanced over and caught me staring. For a heartbeat, I thought I should look away, pretend I hadn’t noticed him. But then he smiled—just a small, quiet smile—and started walking toward me.
"Didn’t think it’d hit this fast," he said, brushing his wet bangs out of his eyes. His voice was calm, warm despite the chill.
"Me either," I replied, laughing softly, a little breathless. "Guess we both misjudged the weather."
He nodded, then looked up at the sky like he was reading something there. “It’s weird. I almost love it. The rain. Like it washes everything down to what it really is.”

Something about the way he said it made me pause. He wasn't just talking about the weather. There was a kind of sadness behind his words, the kind that makes someone seem older than they look.
I asked if he wanted to wait under the overhang with me. He stepped closer, and we both leaned back against the glass of the bakery door, watching the world shimmer in puddles and headlights.
"I'm Noah," he said, after a few quiet minutes.
"I'm—" I hesitated. For some reason, saying my name felt like offering something deeper. But I told him anyway.

He repeated it softly, like he was testing the sound of it, and then smiled again—this time wider, almost like he knew me already.
We conversed. About nothing and everything. He told me he was just passing through—his family moved a lot. I told him I’d lived here forever. He said he liked that. that I appeared to be "rooted." I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just smiled.
Eventually, the rain slowed to a drizzle, the kind that dances lightly on your skin. People emerged from shops with umbrellas and newspaper hats, the city exhaling again. But we stayed, even as the clouds started to lift.

“I should go,” he said eventually, eyes scanning the street like he was looking for something—or someone.
“Will I see you again?” I asked, not ready to let the moment end.
He looked at me, and his smile this time was sad. “Maybe. But even if not, thanks for this.”

He stepped out into the light rain, and for a moment, I watched him go, not wanting to follow. Something told me this wasn’t just an ordinary meeting. He turned once, right before disappearing around the corner, and waved.
I stood there a long time after he left. Letting the rain kiss my cheeks, letting it all sink in.
I often wonder if he was even real. If maybe the rain just sent me a dream wrapped in a boy’s name.
But I remember the way he said mine. The way the world felt different for those few minutes. And I believe he was real—if only for a moment.