Kelly

I stare out the window as the rain comes down, a steady pour that smears the quad into shifting watercolors. The kind I dread—the one that seeps under collars, chills fingers I didn’t realize were clammy—but at least there’s no thunder, no jagged lightning to rattle my thoughts. I have five minutes to make the ten-minute trek to the lecture hall, and this curtain of gray feels like a gauntlet I can’t quite face. You step up behind me. I sense your presence before I hear it—a familiar weight in the quiet—and glance over my shoulder. You snort at the rain, like it’s the punchline to some joke only you understand. “I so dislike getting wet,” I murmur, my voice a mix of irritation and helpless amusement. You chuckle, that effortless sound that always makes the back of my neck tingle. I scoff, turning back to the window, pretending the pull of your laugh isn’t dragging at something inside me. The droplets streak the glass, random yet inevitable, racing each other as if time itself were impatient. “You act like it’s personal,” you say, voice soft but teasing. “It is,” I whisper, though I don’t look at you. My fingers drum lightly on the sill, an unconscious rhythm of indecision. I feel the shift of your weight closer, close enough to notice the faint scent of rain on your jacket, but not close enough to make this comfortable. A silence stretches between us, filled only by the rain’s steady insistence. My heart beats a fraction faster—I tell myself it’s the weather, but I know better. Part of me wants to sprint for the lecture hall, and part wants to stay here, wrapped in the quiet, wet world that feels momentarily ours.