The Day She Stopped Hiding from the Rain

Aanya stood by the office window, staring at the thick grey clouds swallowing the afternoon sun. Monsoon was early this year, and the city below buzzed with anxious traffic, honking at the first sign of drizzle. People hated the rain here. It meant flooded roads, broken commutes, and dripping clothes. But to her, rain always meant something different.

She pressed her fingers against the cool glass, remembering another rainy afternoon twelve years ago when she was only ten. Back then, rain meant freedom. She would run barefoot into the muddy street, arms wide open, her red frock soaked within minutes, while her mother screamed from the porch, “Come inside before you fall sick!” But she never listened. Falling sick was a small price to pay for feeling alive.

Life changed when her father died in a sudden accident. The playful girl was replaced by a quiet teenager who carried responsibility like an iron pot balanced on her head. She stopped playing, stopped dancing, and started studying late into the night under a flickering bulb to secure a scholarship. Rainy days turned from playtime to reminders of what she lost.

Now, at twenty-two, wearing a grey formal suit in an air-conditioned bank, Aanya wondered where that carefree girl had gone. Outside, thunder cracked across the sky. She watched hurried employees packing their bags, covering laptops with plastic sleeves, preparing for chaos. Her team leader called out, “Aanya, submit the reports before leaving.” She nodded silently, her eyes still fixed on the rain beginning to pour down in silver lines, blurring the world into water and light.

Her phone buzzed in her purse. A message from her mother:
“Pick up eggs and milk on the way home.”

She closed her eyes, feeling tears sting. She was tired. Tired of living only to fulfil lists and expectations. Tired of swallowing her words to avoid arguments. Tired of being the dependable daughter who never faltered.

Suddenly, without thinking, she slipped off her office heels under the desk. The carpet felt rough against her soles. Her heart hammered. She closed her laptop, shoved it into her bag, and walked briskly to the exit as her colleagues stared. Outside, the rain was falling hard, hammering the pavement with rhythmic fury. She stepped out into it.

The cold drops hit her face, shocking her skin awake. Her hair, perfectly tied in a neat bun, loosened within seconds as water streamed down her forehead. She raised her face to the sky, letting the drops wash away her makeup, sweat, and hidden sadness. Her mascara ran down her cheeks in black rivers, but she didn’t care. For the first time in years, she felt real.

She took a few steps forward and then, like a secret bursting out of her chest, she laughed. A sound so loud, so free, that people under umbrellas turned to stare. She twirled once, feeling her drenched suit swirl around her legs. The street was flooded, water lapping against her ankles, but she didn’t stop. A biker zoomed past, splashing dirty rainwater all over her clothes. She laughed even harder.

People rushed to their cars, covered their heads, and frowned at her madness. But she kept spinning in the downpour, raindrops pelting her face, lightning streaking the grey canvas above. For a moment, she felt like that ten-year-old girl again – the one who believed the world belonged to her, who believed the rain was her friend.

Aanya didn’t care if she got sick. She didn’t care if her boss scolded her tomorrow for leaving early. She didn’t care about the eggs or milk or the damp notes in her wallet. All she cared about was this moment where nothing else existed except the sky, the earth, and her.

When she finally stopped spinning, chest heaving, hair dripping, she saw an old man selling corn under a makeshift plastic sheet nearby. He smiled at her as if he understood everything. She walked over, bought a steaming roasted corn, and sat on the pavement, chewing slowly as rain drummed on her shoulders. The warmth of the corn soothed her cold hands.

That evening, Aanya walked home drenched, carrying her bag in one hand and half-eaten corn in the other. The city lights shimmered through the downpour, and puddles reflected neon signs like liquid rainbows. She felt light, as if the storm inside her had finally met the storm outside.

Sometimes, she realised, the bravest thing you can do is stop hiding from the rain.