On a dreary, overcast day during the heart of the rainy season, the sky seemed to weep endlessly, casting the world beneath it into a muted gray. The air felt thick with moisture, heavy and expectant. Each raindrop, delicate yet persistent, fell from the swollen clouds above, drifting slowly through the cool, damp air before making contact with the earth. There was no rush in their descent, no hurry in their path—each drop lingered for what felt like an eternity, as if savoring its journey.
When they finally reached the ground, they splashed softly, breaking apart on impact before merging into countless tiny rivulets that snaked across the dirt. The earth, parched from the long dry spell, welcomed each drop with an eager thirst. The once-crumbled soil now softened and darkened as it absorbed the rain, the ground beneath growing heavier and richer with each passing moment. A faint, sweet scent rose from the damp earth, a fragrance that only the rain could bring, filling the air with the promise of renewal.
As the rain continued to fall, it seemed to erase the world's sharp edges, softening the harshness of the day and filling the silence with its steady, soothing rhythm. Time slowed, as if the rain itself was the pulse of the moment, and everything else was held still in its embrace.
A boy, he stands there, holding his umbrella. It's a simple umbrella, really, but it's his. It's a little tilted to the side, like he's not holding it quite straight, but it's doing its job, keeping the rain away. His black hair, it's strange, really. Not a single drop of rain touches it. Not a one. It's as if his hair, somehow, has some kind of magical power to just… keep the water off. The rain falls all around him, dripping from the edge of the umbrella, but his hair remains perfectly dry, sleek and smooth, untouched by the storm.
But then, you look down at his shoes—his white snikkers, yeah, snikkers, not sneakers, because that's just what they are, aren't they? Snikkers. They're not white anymore. The bright, clean white they once were has turned into a muddy, murky mess. Mud, dark and sticky, is smeared all over them, and it's not just a little. No, it's like the mud has swallowed them whole. He's stepped through puddles, through thick, deep puddles, the kind that just cover everything with dirt and water, and now his shoes—those poor, poor shoes—look like they've been through a war. But his hair, still perfect. Not a single drop.
He stood there, almost frozen, at the bus stop, his figure blending into the quiet morning. The world around him seemed to stretch out, time slowing to an almost unbearable crawl. There was a gentle chill in the air, the kind that made the tips of his fingers feel cool, even though his hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets. The street was unusually still, as though everything had paused, holding its breath. He was aware of the slight dampness in the air, the low hum of distant cars, the faint rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze—but none of it seemed to matter. His eyes were unfocused, drifting over the uneven pavement beneath his feet, each crack and imperfection seeming to take on more weight, as if he could get lost in the details of the world around him.
He wasn't in a hurry. There was no rush. The day hadn't started yet, not really. The bus would come when it came, and he would get on it, go where he needed to go, and that would be the rhythm of his day. He stood there, simply waiting, the moments stretching out longer than they ever should.
And then, just as the silence wrapped itself tightly around him, something shifted. It was subtle at first, barely a movement in the corner of his vision—a blur, a flash of motion. But it was enough to catch his attention. He didn't even realize what it was at first.
A girl.
She was running toward him, her figure sharp against the soft morning light. Her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin in the dampness, her long hair a tangled mess, heavy with water, dripping down her back. But it wasn't her disheveled appearance that held his attention. It was something more, something that began to pull at him, slowly at first, as though the world was nudging him to look deeper.
He didn't know why he hadn't noticed her before. Maybe it was because she was just another face in the crowd, just another person caught up in the rush of the morning. But when his eyes finally met hers, it was like the world suddenly stopped. Everything around him faded. The sound of the distant cars, the rustling of the trees, even the soft rain that had begun to fall more heavily—they all disappeared into the background.
It was her eyes. Those blue eyes. They weren't just bright; they were alive, as if they held everything he had been searching for and everything he never even knew he needed. In those few seconds—just those precious seconds—they felt like they were the only two people in the world.
He didn't look away. He couldn't. There was something in those eyes, something he couldn't put into words, something that made his chest tighten and his heart skip. He felt as though he was sinking, as though he was being drawn into her, lost in the depths of that gaze.
And that was when he realized it. It wasn't just an attraction. It wasn't just a passing fancy or a fleeting moment. It was love. Real, undeniable love. The kind that doesn't need time to grow, the kind that hits you like a wave when you least expect it. It was love at first sight, and it felt like the world had shifted, like everything that had come before this moment no longer mattered.
In those few seconds, he had found something. He had found her.
The minutes stretched on, each one feeling longer than the last. The air seemed to hang heavy around them, thick with anticipation, as if time itself had decided to slow down. They stood there, waiting, glancing down the street every few moments, wondering when the bus would finally show. And then, just as they were beginning to lose patience, they heard it. The low hum of an engine, faint at first, but growing steadily louder with each passing second. The bus was coming.
It appeared slowly from around the corner, its headlights cutting through the dimming twilight, throwing long, wavering shadows across the street. The sound of its engine rumbled like a distant thunderstorm, steady but inevitable. As it grew closer, the creak of the metal joints could be heard, each part of the bus groaning as it made its way forward. The large vehicle rolled to a halt in front of them, its tires making a soft hissing sound as they stopped against the pavement. The doors opened with a long, drawn-out creak, almost like the sigh of an old house settling into the night. The sudden rush of stale air inside the bus was a stark contrast to the cool evening breeze outside.
For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. The noise of the world outside faded, and all that remained was the sound of the doors and the soft shuffle of feet on the ground. They stepped forward one by one, almost as if moving in a dream. Each footstep on the cold pavement felt heavy, deliberate, as though they were stepping into a new reality. Their feet met the bus floor with a soft, familiar thud, the worn metal beneath them creaking under the weight. The warmth inside the bus was thick, almost oppressive, and the air smelled faintly of dust and the soft scent of old upholstery.
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A/N: whan I started making this I couldn't think what to write but someone helped me and I can now write it.
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