When Rain Fell in December

They met when they shouldn’t have.

She was engaged. He was leaving.

And yet, on the coldest December evening in Lahore, beneath grey skies and unexpected winter rain, two strangers collided like stars — destined to burn briefly but brightly.

Zara Ahmed was a final-year literature student. Soft-spoken, poetic, and raised in a world of rules and silence. Her wedding was scheduled for January — an arranged match to a man ten years older, a businessman from Karachi she barely knew.

She smiled in front of her parents, said all the right words, but her heart was somewhere far — perhaps hidden between the pages of her worn-out Faiz Ahmed Faiz collection, or behind the cup of chai she made alone every night, pretending not to be sad.

Ayaan Malik was her opposite — a photographer from Islamabad, reckless, kind, and always chasing moments. He wasn’t looking for love. He had just come to Lahore to cover a university event. One weekend. That’s all.

But life had other plans.

They met at a campus bookstall.

Zara was flipping through second-hand poetry books.

Ayaan dropped his coffee.

Literally.

It splashed onto her scarf.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” he stammered, pulling tissues from every pocket.

Zara looked down at the brown stain, blinked once, and… laughed. “I guess this book comes with a coffee flavor now.”

And that laugh — soft and rare — stayed with him.

Over the next 24 hours, fate kept throwing them together.

He offered to buy her a new scarf. She refused.

He offered coffee. She agreed.

They sat under a wooden gazebo in the rain, sharing stories about dreams they had abandoned. She wanted to write. He wanted to stop running. He showed her a photo of a child in Thar desert — barefoot, smiling. She showed him a poem she never showed anyone else.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered, “But it feels like something I’ll remember.”

Ayaan didn’t reply. He just watched her — as if trying to memorize her in one glance.

The next morning, it rained again.

Unusual for December. But some moments demand poetry from the sky.

Zara was supposed to go home. He was supposed to board a train by 6 PM.

Instead, they met one last time.

They walked through the old streets of Anarkali Bazaar, past vendors and lanterns, soaked but smiling. Ayaan bought her a red dupatta.

“Red suits stories,” he said.

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t hold hands.

But they stood beneath the dripping arch of a closed tea shop, facing each other.

Zara looked up at him. “Will we ever meet again?”

Ayaan smiled. “Maybe. But even if we don’t… this—”

He tapped her notebook gently.

“—this will last.”

Then, without drama or promises, he left.

Zara got married a month later.

There was music, lights, rituals — but her eyes searched the crowd.

He wasn’t there.

Why would he be?

Five years passed.

She became a teacher. Wrote in secret. Smiled often but never really laughed.

Until one evening, she walked past a local bookstore — and froze.

In the window was a photography book.

"When Rain Fell in December"

By: Ayaan Malik

She stepped inside like she was stepping into memory.

The pages were full of faces. Distant villages. Quiet smiles.

And then, on page 42, she found it:

A photo of a scarf with a coffee stain… wrapped around a poetry book.

Below it, the caption:

“To the girl who laughed instead of being angry — you taught me that some goodbyes are beginnings in disguise.”

Zara smiled.

And this time, she laughed again.