My Mother’s Prince - The Rain & The Unsaid Things - Part 8

 

The Rain & The Unsaid Things

Rain arrived without warning that evening.

The sky had been normal.
The bus had been late.
Life had been average.

Then suddenly — rain.

Heavy. Confident. No permission asked.

He and Meera stood under the small tin shade near the bus stop. The crowd squeezed closer, turning strangers into temporary relatives.

Water splashed onto his shoes.

He looked at the sky as if it personally betrayed him.

“You don’t like rain either?” Meera asked.

“I don’t mind rain.”

“You’re lying again.”

“Yes.”

She laughed softly.

The bus was delayed indefinitely.

The crowd slowly disappeared — some ran, some booked autos, some accepted destiny.

Soon it was just the two of them… and rain hitting the road like applause.

---

She stepped slightly forward, letting a few drops touch her hand.

“You know,” she said casually, “I used to think quiet people are arrogant.”

He stiffened.

“Oh.”

“Then I realized… you’re not arrogant. You’re just… careful.”

He watched the water collect near the pavement.

“I don’t know how to talk easily,” he admitted.

“You talk fine.”

“Only when necessary.”

“That’s better than talking nonsense.”

“That tea boy is successful then.”

She laughed loudly.

He liked that sound more than he should.

---

The rain grew heavier.

Wind pushed water toward them.

Without thinking much, he shifted slightly closer to block the splash from her side.

It was a small movement.

But she noticed.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “Gravity.”

“Gravity doesn’t move sideways.”

He looked away.

---

After a pause, she asked quietly,

“Can I ask something personal?”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

“Why do you measure yourself so strictly?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

The rain gave him time.

“My mom thinks I can do big things,” he said finally.
“I don’t want to become her disappointment.”

Meera studied his face.

“Does she look disappointed?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you’re competing with a fear that doesn’t exist.”

He thought about that.

He had never considered that possibility.

---

Lightning flashed briefly.

She startled slightly.

Instinctively, he said, “It’s okay.”

It was simple. Automatic.

But it made her smile.

“You always try to protect people?”

“No.”

“You just did.”

He blinked.

“I didn’t think.”

“Exactly.”

---

The bus finally arrived, half-empty now.

They got in.

This time, they found seats next to each other.

The windows were fogged.

Rain streaked down like moving lines.

Silence sat between them — but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was… full.

She suddenly said,

“You know what I like about you?”

He almost jumped.

“What?”

“You don’t pretend.”

He searched for a reply.

“I don’t know how to pretend.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“And you?”

he asked quietly.

“What about me?”

“What do you measure yourself against?”

She looked out of the window.

“Independence.”

He waited.

“My family thinks I should settle soon. Marriage, stability. I want… more time.”

He nodded.

“For what?”

“To choose properly.”

The words lingered.

Not heavy.

But meaningful.

---

When her stop came, she stood up.

Before stepping down, she turned slightly.

“You’re not a small salary person.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means… don’t let numbers define you.”

Then she stepped off into the rain.

He watched through the fogged window.

His reflection overlapped with hers for a brief second.

And for the first time —

He wasn’t thinking about ₹8,500.

He wasn’t thinking about interviews.

He wasn’t thinking about failure.

He was thinking about something new.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something warmer than friendship.

Something slower.

Something growing quietly.

---

At home, his mother saw the damp shirt.

“Rain?”

He nodded.

“Umbrella?”

“No.”

She looked at him carefully.

“You look… different.”

“Different how?”

She smiled knowingly.

“Like someone who stood in rain but didn’t get wet.”

He didn’t understand.

But somewhere inside —

He knew.

Something had begun.

Softly.

Like rain before a storm.