The first time Amara saw Dimeji, he was standing in the rain, soaked through, staring at the sky like he was asking it a question. She watched him from the safety of her kiosk near the bus stop, where she sold akara and pap each morning. Something about his stillness called to her — like he wasn't really standing in the rain but waiting in it.
When he finally turned to her, their eyes met — not just the way strangers glance — but a pull, quiet and deep, like two forgotten songs finding the same melody again.
He returned the next day. And the next. Not for the food — she could tell. He barely ate. Instead, he'd sit on the bench near her kiosk and sketch in a worn-out book, occasionally looking up to smile at her.
"Why the rain?" she finally asked one morning as drops began to fall again.
"It's the only time I feel real," he said, his voice soft but heavy with something unsaid.
Weeks passed, and Amara learned bits and pieces about him — that he was an artist, that he once had a gallery in Lagos, and that he'd left everything behind after a heartbreak that shattered more than just his relationship. But what she never learned — not yet — was why he always left before sunset.
One evening, driven by curiosity and something deeper, Amara followed him. What she discovered wasn't what she expected. Dimeji wasn't homeless, as she had assumed — he lived in an old house, hidden between banana trees, filled with unfinished paintings… all of her. Every smile, every glance, every moment she thought was forgotten — immortalized in paint.
He'd been painting her long before he ever spoke to her.
When he turned and saw her standing in the doorway, he didn't speak. He didn't need to. He simply walked to her, took her hand, and said, "You brought me back to color."
Their love wasn't the loud, fireworks kind. It was the kind that healed slowly — like wounds warmed by the morning sun. And in every drop of rain that followed, they didn't run. They danced — because sometimes, love doesn't arrive with grand gestures, but with quiet sketches and the bravery to look up when it starts to rain.