She stood there, sky high, a mere window pane separating her from the grey horizon. Lightening shot through it, while she watched drops lashing against the glass. The drops ran all over, blurring the burning city lights. She watched, she observed – confused.

Her cousin sister, jumping and dancing in the rain, called out to her,” Come on Amaya, why aren’t you dancing?”

Amaya loved to dance in the rain. But she would not budge, because she knew that the rain was sad. It was crying for somebody, somebody who could bear no more. Her grandpa often tried cheer her up with paper boats, but they would all sink – every time the rain was sad. She would also fall sick at times.

She was born in the month of the rain, and named after it. She grew up watching the rain, and it never let her down. She danced with it when it was happy, and it showered on her when she was sad. She missed it dearly during summer, eagerly expecting the sudden unexpected showers.

Her first day in a new city, she was lost in the rain. The rain that went on beating against the pane, continuously with a consistent force. For the first time, her best friend had caught her by surprise. It was unhappy, but not exactly sad. For the first time, she could feel its anger.

 

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