Until It Rained Again

           It was a cold winter morning when Sameer woke up to the sound of rain hitting the windows. The sky was grey, and everything outside looked quiet. He didn’t feel like getting up. Life had been tough lately. Ever since his father passed away two years ago, things hadn’t been the same. His mother worked two jobs to keep the house running, and Sameer, just 17, tried his best to stay strong for her. 

          

       School wasn’t any better. He wasn’t popular, didn’t have many friends, and preferred to stay silent most of the time. He liked books, especially old novels and stories of people who found hope in the darkest of times. Sometimes, he wished his own life would turn into one of those stories where something magical happened.

        That morning, he walked to school with his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding puddles and keeping his head low. The class was half empty because of the weather. He took his usual seat in the last row and pulled out his notebook. The teacher didn’t even notice him, as usual.

          During lunch break, Sameer sat alone under the tree behind the school building. That’s when he saw her for the first time. She was standing in the garden, looking up at the sky as raindrops fell gently on her hands. She didn’t have an umbrella, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her name was Haya, a new student who had joined just a week ago.

         Sameer had heard her name during roll call but never really paid attention. She was different from others. She spoke softly, always smiled, and greeted even the cleaners and peons. Most students ignored her kindness. But Sameer noticed.

          The next day, she was in the library. Sameer, as always, was sitting near the window reading.Haya walked past him and stopped when she saw the book in his hand.

“You like Ruskin Bond?” she asked with a gentle voice.

        Sameer looked up, surprised. No one had ever asked him about books before.

“Yeah,” he said. “His stories feel... real.”

She smiled. “He writes with his heart.”

           That was their first real conversation. It didn’t last long, but something changed after that. The next day, she sat next to him during break and asked about his favorite authors. Then they started sharing books. After a few days, she began waiting for him outside the class, and he began looking forward to seeing her every morning.

           Sameer had never had a friend like Haya. She was calm, understanding, and never judged him. Slowly, he started opening up about his life, his father, and how he sometimes felt invisible.

         She listened quietly. Then one day she said, “Maybe you feel invisible because you haven’t found the right mirror yet.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means sometimes, you need someone to remind you of who you really are.”

          That line stayed with him. Maybe Haya was that mirror. For the first time in a long while, Sameer felt seen. His teachers noticed him more now. He started participating in class discussions. He even won second place in a story-writing competition. His mother smiled more these days too, noticing how he talked more during dinner.

          But life has a strange way of testing happiness.

          One morning, Haya didn’t come to school. Sameer thought maybe she was sick. But days passed, and she didn’t return. No one seemed to know anything. The principal announced after a week that she had moved to another city because of a family emergency.

         Sameer felt like someone had pulled the ground from beneath his feet. He sat alone again under the tree, this time not even opening his book. He kept looking at the garden where she once stood in the rain.

        Weeks passed, and he tried to go back to the way things were, but he couldn’t. Something had changed inside him. He realized that Haya hadn’t just been a friend—she had been a light during a dark time. But instead of being sad, he decided to do something with what she had given him.

He started writing stories. Real stories. Stories about loneliness, hope, kindness, and invisible people. He wrote about a girl who believed in the rain, and a boy who found his voice because someone cared. His stories were shared in the school magazine. Then a teacher submitted them to a local writing contest. He didn’t even know about it until one day, a letter arrived at his doorstep.

Sameer had won first prize in a national short story competition. He was invited to speak at a student literature festival in the city. When he stood at the stage, holding the microphone, he looked out at the crowd and remembered the boy who used to sit in the last row, afraid to speak, afraid to be noticed.

He smiled and said, “Sometimes, one kind person is enough to remind you who you are.”

That evening, as he walked back home with the trophy in his hand, he looked up at the sky. It was cloudy, and soon it began to rain. He didn’t use an umbrella. He let the rain fall, the same way she did, the first time he saw her.

Even though she was gone, a part of her still lived in every word he wrote, every story he shared, and every silent person he smiled at.

He never saw Haya again. But sometimes, when it rained, he felt she was close—just like a chapter in his favorite book, never forgotten, always there to return to.