Chapter 26

The sky is a deep, stretched-out gray, the clouds folding over each other like soft, unfinished brushstrokes. The wind moves in short, hushed sighs, weaving through the open window, carrying the scent of wet earth before the rain has even begun.

I stand by the balcony, fingers curled around the rusted edge of the frame.

And then—

The first drop.

It lands soundlessly on the railing. A tiny, fleeting thing.

And then another.

And another.

And suddenly, the sky breaks.

The rain pours down, not hesitantly, not apologetically—but all at once.

There’s no warning. No slow buildup. Just a sudden, reckless surrender.

I close my eyes.

Breathe.

There’s something about the rain. Something honest. Something unafraid.

It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t wait for the world to be ready for it.

It just falls.

Like the sky reaching for the earth. Like a lover stretching across eternity, desperate to be felt, held, known.

And the earth—aching, open, waiting—drinks it in.

Forgets, even for a moment, that they were ever separate at all.

My chest tightens. I reach out, palm open to the air.

The raindrops land against my skin, cool and soft. A gentle, wordless reminder that the sky is still here.

That it’s always been here. That no matter how many days pass, no matter how many afternoons feel too heavy to hold, the rain will always find its way back down.

My phone rings.

The sound is obnoxious, tearing through the quiet, and I groan, peeling my eyes open.

I glance at the screen.

Raj.

I hesitate for a second before swiping to answer.

“You’re disturbing a religious experience,” I say immediately.

“Oh, my bad,” Raj deadpans. “Didn’t realize you were sacrificing yourself to the rain gods.”

“I might as well be. You’ve interrupted something sacred.”

“Yeah? What were you doing? Staring dramatically into the distance? Writing poetry?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Jesus Christ, Sharma.”

“You called me, Raj. You willingly walked into this conversation.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

I smirk, stepping away from the window, leaning against the wall. “What do you want?”

“Wow. So cold. So heartless. And here I thought we had something special.”

“Raj.”

“Fine, fine.” A pause. “You weren’t in Botany today.”

My stomach clenches for a second—the hospital, Aman, his mom, the exhaustion of it all—but I push it aside. “Yeah. Had something to do.”

“How mysterious.”

“How annoying.”

“Anyway,” Raj continues, unfazed, “since you missed it, I’m calling as your self-appointed academic savior—who you should be grateful to—to tell you that tomorrow, we’re going to the botanical park for class.”

I blink. “Wait. Field trip?”

“Try to keep up, Sharma.”

“Huh.” I glance back out at the rain. “Guess that means I have to wake up tomorrow.”

“Yes, generally speaking, that’s how existence works.”

“Shame.”

“What’s a shame is that I’ll have to physically drag you onto that bus,” Raj sighs. “And I will if necessary.”

“You threatening me?”

“No, no. I would never threaten you.” A beat. “I’m promising you.”

I shake my head, fighting a smirk. “You enjoy harassing me, don’t you?”

Raj doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he hums. “You like rain, huh?”

I glance out the window again. The world is softer now, the sky still heavy but the downpour slowing, stretching into something more gentle.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”

There’s a pause.

And then—

“Yeah. I figured.”

It’s casual. Almost too casual. Like he’s known this about me for a while.

Like he notices things.

I clear my throat. “Well, congratulations. You have now fulfilled your role as an informant. You can go be insufferable elsewhere.”

“And leave you to your dramatic brooding?”

“Yes.”

“Tempting.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

And then, voice lower, softer—

“See you tomorrow, Sharma.”

The call ends.

I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, staring out at the endless, open sky.

The rain has slowed, but it hasn’t stoppe.

It lingers—soft and steady, the kind that seeps into the ground, into the air, into your bones. The kind that makes the world feel smaller, quieter.

I walk downstairs.

Mom isn’t in sight. Maybe in her room. Maybe lying down.

But Dad—

Dad is by the door, standing just near the threshold, staring outside.

Not waiting. Not thinking.

Just… watching.

I stop. For a second, I think about just walking past him, heading straight for the kitchen, pretending I don’t see him.

But instead—for some reason—I don’t.

I step forward and stand beside him.

He doesn’t look at me.

But his shoulders shift just slightly—an unconscious acknowledgment.

For a long moment, we don’t speak.

The rain hums against the pavement. The air smells damp, thick with the scent of wet earth.

And then, Dad says, “It was raining the day you were born.”

I glance at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Heavily. Flooded roads. Your mom yelled at me the entire way to the hospital. She was convinced we weren’t going to make it in time.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “No wonder I love the rain.”

Dad almost—almost—smiles.

He exhales, eyes still distant. “When I was a kid, I used to take my bicycle out whenever it rained. Ride all over town. My mother used to scold me when I got back, all soaked and covered in mud. But it never stopped me.”

He shakes his head slightly, as if reminiscing about a version of himself he no longer recognizes.

I tilt my head slightly. I can almost picture it—younger him, pedaling fast through quiet, rain-washed streets, cutting through puddles like they weren’t there.

“Alone?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes with friends. But mostly alone. I liked the wind in my face.”

I nod slowly. “Sounds nice.”

“It was.”

A pause.

Then—”You ever do that?”

I blink.

Shift slightly.

Then—”I never learned how to ride a bicycle.”

Dad turns to me fully this time, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“I never learned,” I repeat, shrugging

.

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Dad blinks, as if trying to process something that doesn’t make sense to him.

“How?”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Mom didn’t know how to ride either. And you—”

I stop.

I don’t need to finish the sentence.

Because Dad’s expression changes.

It’s subtle. Barely there.

But I see it.

The realization. The quiet, sinking regret. The understanding of something too late.

He looks away first.

And I let him.

The silence stretches—not heavy, but hollow.

I clear my throat. “I’m hungry.”

Dad exhales, running a hand over his face. “Yeah. Let’s eat.”

We move to the kitchen.

The light flickers slightly as I open the fridge, pulling out leftover dal and rice.

Dad leans against the counter, watching absently as I take out plates.

And, without thinking, my mind drifts.

I remember being small. Sitting at the park. Watching the other kids with their fathers holding onto the bicycle seat, teaching them.

I remember looking at Mom. She used to hold my hand a little tighter during those moments. Not like she was angry. Just… as if she wanted to hold something before it slipped

She never said anything about it. Never tried to explain why I didn’t have the same moment.

She just took my hand when we got home.

Led me to the keyboard.

“Come on,” she used to say, setting my fingers over the keys. “Let’s try something new today.” She never said it out loud.

But I knew.

She was filling the space.

Filling the silence.

Filling the void.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s softer now, just a steady hum against the roof, against the glass, against the quiet between us.

I stand at the counter, scooping dal into a bowl. Dad moves beside me, pulling out the plates, setting them down one by one.

We don’t talk. Not at first. Buy the silence isn’t tense. It’s just there—like the rain, like the distant sound of traffic rolling through wet streets, like something waiting but not quite ready to settle.

Dad exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“You know, when I was your age, I thought I’d be a pilot.”

I glance at him, caught off guard. “A pilot?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” He leans against the counter. “Used to read books about it. Had everything planned out in my head. Thought I’d travel everywhere. The sky felt… limitless, I guess.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And instead, you became an accountant and well now you have your own start-up.”

“Life happens.” His voice is light, but there’s something else there, something underneath. “Dreams shift. Priorities change.”

I pick up a spoon, stirring absently. “Or they just get lost somewhere.”

Dad doesn’t answer right away.

The rain fills the space between us.

Then, softly—”Yeah. Sometimes that happens too.”

I look at him.

His gaze is still distant, still somewhere else. Maybe in a past version of himself, maybe in a version of me that should’ve had a father holding onto the back of a bicycle seat.

“I should’ve—” He stops. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

I don’t push.

Because I think I already know what he was going to say.

Instead, I turn to the microwave, setting the bowl inside, pressing a button.

“Mom used to watch the other kids in the park too,” I say casually. “She never said anything, but I knew she saw it.”

Dad’s grip on the counter tightens slightly. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “She always noticed things like that.”

The microwave beeps.

I pull out the bowl, the warmth seeping into my hands.

Dad exhales again, shaking his head. “You really never tried? Not even once?”

I shrug. “What would’ve been the point?”

Dad watches me for a long moment. His eyes flick to the rain outside, the dim glow of the streetlights catching in the puddles.

He looks like he wants to say something.

Maybe something about regret. About absence. About realizing too late that childhood doesn’t wait for anyone.

But instead, he just nods.

“Next time it rains,” he says, voice measured, “you should go out and walk in it. Get drenched. Let yourself be a kid for once.”

I smirk. “Sounds like a terrible idea.”

Dad almost smiles. “Yeah. But those are usually the best ones.”

The rain continues. And we eat in silence.

I stack my plate over the sink, rinsing it out without much thought.

Dad stays seated at the dining table, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, slow and absent.

Neither of us speak.

The rain hums against the windows, steady, unrelenting.

I dry my hands against a towel and turn toward the stairs, ready to disappear into my room before the air between us gets too heavy again.

But then—

“You’re a good kid.”

I stop.

Dad isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at the table, like he’s reading something written in the grain of the wood.

“A good friend. A good person.”

He stops there.

Like the next part is stuck somewhere in his throat.

Like this is already more than he’s used to saying.

And when I turn to face him fully, I see it.

The hesitation. The struggle of someone trying to say something that doesn’t come naturally. Someone who isn’t used to giving words to things.

I swallow. My chest feels too full, too tight, too much.

For a moment, I think that’s all he’s going to say. That this is as far as he can go.

But then, finally—

“And I—” He exhales sharply. Runs a hand through his hair. Tries again. “I want to be a good dad.”

Something inside me cracks.

Not all at once.

Not violently.

But slowly.

Like an old fracture giving in to pressure.

I swallow, forcing out something that sounds like a chuckle. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Dad doesn’t flinch.

“I know.” His voice is quiet. Raw in a way I’ve never heard before.

I shake my head, looking at the ceiling, exhaling through my nose. “Why now?”

“Because I realized I don’t know you.”

I blink.

Dad exhales, leaning forward, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I used to think providing was enough. That as long as you had a roof over your head, food on the table, a good school to go to—” He stops, shaking his head. “I thought that meant I was doing my job. That meant things were fine.”

His grip tightens around the glass.

“But they weren’t.”

I stare at him.

Because this—this is not the man who flips through his newspaper and comments on things he doesn’t understand.

This isn’t the man who assumed I was fine just because I didn’t say otherwise.

This is someone else.

Someone reckoning with something too late.

“Will you wait?” he asks suddenly. “Will you—give me time?”

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know if I can say anything.

So I just stand there, Chest tight.

Fingers curled.

Breath slow.

I don’t move. I don’t answer.

But the rain is still falling.

And I’m still here.

And somehow, I think that’s already an answer.