You hate the rain. Always have. It wasn't just about getting wet or the inconvenience of it, no. The rain was something deeper—an unwelcome reminder of things you'd rather forget. Your ex? He ruined the rain for you. Every drop seemed to echo the cold, biting words he'd thrown at you, the broken promises, the way he walked out on you during a storm, leaving you drenched not just on the outside but on the inside, too.

So now, whenever the sky darkens and the scent of impending rain lingers in the air, you feel it first in your chest—a tightening, a wave of anxiety, an urge to flee.

It was raining today.

You’re at school, of all places, sitting in the corner of the library where you thought you'd be safe from the dark clouds overhead. You had your headphones on, trying to block out the muffled sound of raindrops against the windows, but it’s no use. The rain was persistent, as always, demanding to be felt.

Then, there’s him.

You don’t know why, but he’s always around when you least expect it. Like now, as he slips into the seat across from you, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous grin. His name? Let’s just call him H.

“What are you doing?” His voice cuts through the dull thrum of rain.

You glance up from your book, which you hadn’t been reading anyway, your mind too distracted by the weather outside. “Nothing.”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, studying you. “You’re thinking too hard. I can tell.”

“You don’t know me that well,” you mumble, but it doesn’t come out as harsh as you intended.

H smiles, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “I do, actually. And I know you hate the rain.”

Your gaze snaps to his face. How could he know that? You never told anyone. But somehow, in those brown eyes, there’s an understanding that unnerves you. He isn’t mocking you. He isn’t prying. He just...knows.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, hoping the conversation will end.

“Neither should you,” he counters, leaning back in his chair as if settling in for the long haul. “But here we are.”

You don’t respond.