The rain came without warning, as it often did in Bengaluru—soft at first, then insistent, like a memory trying to be remembered.
Aanya stood beneath the awning of Blossom Book House, clutching a dog-eared copy of Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Her umbrella had betrayed her hours ago, snapped in half like her last relationship. She didn't mind the rain, not really. But today, it felt personal.
She watched the street blur into watercolor—rickshaws humming, headlights glowing like fireflies, and strangers rushing past with umbrellas that seemed to mock her. She sighed, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
"Looks like we're both stranded," said a voice behind her.
She turned. A man stood there, tall, lean, with a crooked smile and an umbrella that looked like it had survived a monsoon or two. His eyes were warm, the kind that didn't ask for attention but held it anyway.
"I don't usually share shelter with strangers," she said, half-teasing.
"Then let's not be strangers," he replied, extending the umbrella just enough to cover her shoulder.
She hesitated, then stepped in. The space between them was small, but the silence was comfortable.
"I'm Vihaan," he said.
"Aanya."
They walked together toward Church Street, the umbrella tilting slightly with each step, forcing them closer. The rain tapped above them like a metronome, setting a rhythm neither of them had expected.
"So, Neruda?" he asked, nodding at her book.
"You read poetry?"
"I write it. Badly."
She laughed. "That's brave."
"Or foolish."
They reached Matteo's, the café with the ivy-covered walls and the smell of roasted beans that could make anyone believe in second chances.
"Coffee?" he asked.
She paused. "Only if you promise not to quote your own poetry."
"Deal."
And just like that, under a canopy of raindrops and poetry, something began—not loudly, not dramatically, but like the first drop before the storm.