When Raindrops Remembered Us

When Raindrops Remembered Us

A chance encounter, a forgotten melody, and the love that never truly left

It was a quiet, rainy afternoon when Aanya walked into the old bookstore at the corner of Rose Street. The rain had started gently, tapping against the windows like an old lullaby. She shook off her umbrella and smiled at the familiar scent of paper, ink, and memories.

This bookstore held pieces of her past—especially one memory she never truly let go of.

Five years ago, she had sat in the same corner reading poetry with Arman, the boy who used to sing old songs just to make her smile. They were young, full of dreams, and deeply in love. But life had pulled them in different directions—he left to study music abroad, and she stayed behind for her family.

They promised to stay in touch, but promises are often the first things to fade.

Aanya walked slowly between the shelves, her fingers brushing over the spines of books like they held pieces of her heart. She stopped at the old poetry section, where Pablo Neruda and Rumi sat side by side. Just as she reached for her favorite collection, a familiar voice behind her said:

“You still love Rumi?”

She froze.

That voice.

She turned around slowly, and there he was—Arman. His hair was a little longer now, his eyes still warm but filled with something deeper—like time had added quiet stories to them.

“Arman,” she whispered.

“Hi, Aanya,” he said, giving her the same crooked smile that once made her fall in love.

There was a long pause, filled only with the soft sounds of rain and their heartbeats. Neither of them moved.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she finally said.

“I wasn’t planning to come. I was just… walking. The rain brought me in.”

She smiled faintly. “The rain always brings things back.”

They sat down at the little wooden table by the window, just like they used to. Outside, the world blurred behind sheets of rain. Inside, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“So,” he said, wrapping his hands around a warm cup of tea the shopkeeper offered, “how have you been?”

“I’ve been okay,” she replied. “Working at the local school. Teaching literature.”

“Of course,” he smiled. “Still surrounded by stories.”

“And you? Still making music?”

“Yes. I just came back for a few months. My sister’s getting married.”

They laughed softly at the timing. Life always had a strange way of reconnecting people when they least expected it.

“Do you remember the song you used to sing for me?” she asked suddenly.

He chuckled. “Which one? I sang a hundred songs for you.”

“The one about the rain. It always started when we sat by this window.”

He looked out at the sky. The same gray tones. The same sound.

Then, softly, he began to hum.

And just like that, she remembered everything. The quiet walks. The stolen kisses. The handwritten notes hidden inside books. The laughter, the fights, and the night he left with tears in his eyes.

“Why didn’t we try harder?” she asked quietly.

“We were young,” he replied. “We thought love would wait. But time moved faster than we did.”

“I kept waiting,” she admitted. “For your letters. For your calls.”

“I wrote,” he said. “Every day. I just… never sent them.”

Aanya looked at him, eyes wide.

“I was scared,” he continued. “That maybe you'd moved on. That I had no right to interrupt your life after so long.”

“But I never stopped thinking about you,” she whispered.

The silence between them was heavy, but not painful. It was full of things they never said, memories they never erased.

“Do you think,” he said carefully, “we could start again?”

Aanya didn’t answer right away. She looked down at her hands, then back at him.

“We’re not the same people we were,” she said.

“That’s true,” he nodded. “But maybe we’re better now. Stronger. Wiser.”

“And braver,” she added, smiling softly.

They stayed in the bookstore for hours. Talking. Laughing. Catching up on lost time. It felt like the world outside didn’t exist, like the rain had created a bubble just for them.

When it was time to leave, he walked her home under one umbrella, just like the old days. Their hands brushed. Then fingers intertwined, naturally.

As they reached her gate, she turned to him.

“You still hum when you're nervous,” she teased.

“And you still tap your fingers when you’re thinking.”

They stood there for a moment longer, reluctant to say goodbye.

“So,” he said, “coffee tomorrow?”

“And the next day,” she smiled. “And maybe forever after that.”

He leaned in, gently, and kissed her forehead. A promise not just to return, but to never leave again.

A month later, Arman sang again—this time on a small stage at a café, with Aanya in the front row, eyes full of light. His song was new, yet familiar. A melody born from old memories and a fresh hope.

The lyrics were simple:

“Some love stories don’t end.

They just pause... until the rain remembers.”*

And as the raindrops tapped once more against the windows, Aanya knew

They hadn’t just remembered each other.

They had remembered what love could be.

The End