When the Rain Fell Softly

The first time I saw her, it was raining—not the wild, stormy kind, but the soft, gentle drizzle that makes everything feel like a dream. I was sitting outside a quiet bookstore in Lahore, under a small awning, sipping hot chai from a paper cup. The smell of wet earth, old books, and street samosas lingered in the air.

That’s when she appeared—running, laughing, drenched but not bothered at all. Her dupatta clung to her, her hair wet and tangled, and her smile… it was the kind that didn’t ask for attention but captured it anyway.

She looked at me, a stranger, and said, “Do you mind if I stand here for a while? My umbrella broke halfway down the street.”

I moved slightly, making space under the already crowded shade. “Of course not.”

She stood beside me, brushing water from her sleeves. There was a kind of quiet comfort in the moment—two strangers sharing shelter from the rain. I offered her some chai. She took it with a soft laugh and thanked me.

That’s how it began.




Her name was Areeba.

She was a literature student, studying Urdu classics, and had a soft spot for rainy days and old poetry. That first conversation went from Faiz to Ghalib, from chai stalls to childhood stories. She told me how marigolds reminded her of her grandmother’s garden—how they were simple but lasted longer than roses.

I remember thinking, This girl sees beauty in things most people forget to notice.

We parted ways that day without exchanging numbers, just a smile and a soft “maybe I’ll see you again.”

I didn’t expect to.




But the city, in its strange way, kept bringing us back together.

We met again a week later at the same bookstore. Then again in a chai shop nearby. After that, it became a pattern. We never made plans—we just kept running into each other like the universe was writing us into the same chapter.

We talked about everything. She told me how her dream was to pursue her Master’s in Karachi. I told her how I loved photography but never had the courage to chase it seriously. She encouraged me, saying, “If something brings you peace, it’s worth following.”

One day, I brought her a bunch of marigolds, tied in a simple white thread.

She looked at them, then at me. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you,” I replied.

We sat on that bookstore bench for hours, not caring about time or the noise around us. She read me poems from her notebook. I took pictures of her holding those marigolds, the sunlight catching her smile.




But not every love story ends with forever. Some just leave you with moments that never fade.

One evening, as we sat under our favorite tree, Areeba told me she’d gotten her admission in Karachi. She was leaving in two weeks.

“I’m happy for you,” I said, though my chest ached.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered.

“But you have to,” I replied. “For yourself. And I’ll still be here. Always.”

We didn’t make promises we couldn’t keep. We exchanged letters instead of big words. And when she left, I stood at the station with another bunch of marigolds, watching her train disappear into the horizon.




We kept in touch for a while—calls, texts, voice notes filled with poetry and silly jokes. But life has its way of testing distances. Slowly, the messages grew shorter. The calls became less frequent.

And yet… not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Every time it rains, I look out the window and remember that day—her laugh, the broken umbrella, and the warmth of her hand brushing mine as she took the chai.

I still visit that bookstore.

I still sit on that same bench.

And yes, I still buy marigolds.

Because sometimes, a moment is enough. One walk in the rain. One poem. One girl who saw beauty in forgotten things.

And honestly, even if love doesn’t last a lifetime, it can still change one.

Forever.