Monsoon Magic Micro-fiction Contest Voting Round #2

Let the rain kiss you, let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, let the rain sing you a lullaby. – Langston Hughes

Our creative writers of IF are extraordinarily talented ones , they can spin magic out of every situation and they have proved themselves here. Just give them the hint and LO! Watch them spin magical monsoon microfictions .
Our dear Authors you have literally rained numerous entries with love and made this contest a huge success .
The sound of the rain tapping against the windows, petrichor in the air, cold, grey skies: a perfect day to stay bundled up under the covers. Grab your device and a steaming cup of coffee, it’s reading time!

Second voting round has entries #61- #122 spread, over 4 posts

Everyone is welcomed to vote.

Please Vote for 5 entries

You can not vote for your own entries . … Please don't edit your votes.Voting starts 03 Aug 2025, ends on 15 Aug 2025 at 2359 hrs IST.

Entry 61

Rain poured over the streets of Seoul as Ji-eun rushed, clutching her sketchbook, trying not to slip. Her umbrella flipped in the wind, and just then, someone held theirs over her. She looked up—it was Hyun-woo, the quiet guy from her art class. “You always run without looking?” he asked, smiling softly. They walked together under the shared umbrella, steps syncing without trying. Raindrops tapped like a soft soundtrack, and the city faded around them. At her stop, she turned to thank him, but he was already gone—leaving only his umbrella behind. Her heart skipped. Monsoon magic had just begun.

Entry 62

Rain poured over Seoul as Ha-ri stood shivering at the bus stop, her umbrella broken by the wind. Just then, a sleek black car stopped. The window rolled down—it was Min-jun, the rich CEO she had accidentally spilled coffee on last week. “Get in,” he said calmly. She hesitated, then nodded and stepped in. Inside, it was warm. He handed her a towel and said, “You always get caught in storms?” She smiled shyly. “Only special ones.” Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, silence spoke. In that rainy moment, something gentle and new began. It felt just like a scene from a K-drama.

Entry 63

The monsoon poured over Seoul like a dreamy soundtrack, soft piano notes in every raindrop. Ha-eun ran, her heels clicking on the wet ground, her umbrella flipping inside out. She hurried into a convenience store, breathless—and there he was. Ji-hoon, her ex, the one who disappeared after their sad goodbye on the rooftop. Rain dripped from his hair, and his eyes looked surprised. “Still don’t like storms?” he asked, holding out a warm coffee. She took it, their fingers touching. Outside, thunder rumbled like applause. Inside, the air felt heavy—not just from the rain, but from things they didn’t say. Monsoon magic, K-drama style.
Entry 64

She froze as the lightning lit up a dark figure standing next to her. Just moments ago, she had been alone on the hill, letting her sister’s ashes fly into the wind. Now—someone stood there. A long coat, boots, something shiny at his side. Her breath stopped. Another flash—he hadn’t moved, but his eyes looked strange, like he knew her. “You came,” he said quietly. She stepped back. “Who are you?” she asked. The sky lit up again—but he was gone. Just wind and rain. Then she looked down. In her hand was her sister’s locket. She hadn’t brought it.

Entry 65

Monsoon chaos brings strangers from opposite worlds closer, find unexpected connection in the crowded train. She was elegance—heels, silk scarf, phone buzzing with deadlines. He was earth—mud-streaked boots, paint-stained fingers, sketchpad tucked under his arm. Rain lashed against the train’s windows as they stood shoulder to shoulder, swaying with each stop. A jolt. Her umbrella slipped; he caught it. She smiled, flustered. He sketched silently, then turned the pad—her portrait, eyes lifted in wonder. “Keep it,” he said. Their stations were different. Their lives even more so. But that brief ride etched something lasting—proof that even storms can spark quiet magic.

Entry 66

little dog looked up at his human as thunder rattled the windowpanes, his tiny body trembling. She paused mid-sentence on her laptop, met his wide, pleading eyes, and without a word, scooped him into her arms. “Come here, brave boy,” His heartbeat, frantic at first, began to slow against her chest. Outside, lightning split the sky, but inside, her embrace was steady, Her fingers moved slowly through his fur, steady as a lullaby. The thunder cracked again—louder this time—but wrapped in her arms, he didn’t flinch. Fear still echoed, but love now spoke louder. He was safe. He had found his shelter.
Entry 67
The thunderstorm threw open the window, and rain splashed on her face, shattering her daydream. She blinked, heart racing, pulled from the memory of his last goodbye—the umbrella, the promise, the kiss that never landed. The cold droplets streaked down her cheeks like the tears she hadn’t let fall. Across the street, a dark shadow paused under the flickering lamplight—tall, familiar, hesitant. Her breath caught. Was it him? Another flash of lightning—and he was gone. Just a shadow, or fate teasing her again? She closed the window slowly, the echo of the storm whispering truths she wasn’t ready to face.

Entry 68

She dashed down the sidewalk, clutching her folder, heart pounding—already five minutes late for the interview that could change her life. Just as she neared the gate, a motorbike sped past, splashing muddy water all over her crisp white shirt and carefully printed résumé.

Stunned, she stood still, drenched and defeated.

But then, from inside the building, a man rushed out with tissues and a bottle of water. “Are you here for the 10:30?” he asked, smiling. She nodded, heart sinking.

“I’m the interviewer. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Sometimes, a splash of bad luck brings you face-to-face with unexpected kindness.

Entry 69

He held her tightly as they walked, sharing the umbrella while the rain danced around them like a quiet symphony. Seoul’s streets shimmered beneath their feet, lantern lights flickering in puddles. Her head rested against his shoulder, eyes closed, as if trying to memorize the rhythm of his steps. They had no destination—just borrowed time and unspoken words. The umbrella tilted, barely shielding them, but neither cared. Every raindrop was a memory, every silence a confession. Tomorrow, he’d return to duty, and she’d go back to pretending. But tonight, under one umbrella and a thousand stars, they let themselves believe in forever.

Entry 70

The breeze flew away the hat, and he noticed her long wet eyelashes fringing her beautiful eyes, shimmering under the soft drizzle. They had run into each other on the Han River bridge, both chasing different pasts. Her hat sailed into the wind, but his gaze stayed on her—breath caught, time paused. She blinked, embarrassed, brushing her damp hair aside. “I didn’t mean to bump into you,” she murmured. “I’m glad you did,” he said, handing her the scarf she’d dropped. Somewhere behind them, the world moved on. But under that cloudy Seoul sky, something quiet and beautiful had just begun.

Entry 71

The swirling river current was carrying away an intricately carved box with gold inlay work, a relic from another lifetime. glinting like a secret in the sunlit water. Mira stood frozen on the banks, her fingers still wet from trying to grasp it. Inside were her mother’s ashes, wrapped in silk, along with a locket and a note she’d never dared to read. The current tugged it from her hands, as if the river itself had chosen release. No rituals, no crowd—just water, sky, and silence. A tear slid down her cheek, not of sorrow, but peace. Sometimes, farewell isn’t spoken. It drifts gently downstream, unburdened.
Entry 72
In the torrential rain, she noticed two eyes gleaming in the darkness—unblinking, fiercely, and too still to be human. Her heart pounded louder than the thunder above. She stood frozen on the deserted road, clutching her soaked raincoat tighter. A low growl rumbled through the wind. Just as she turned to run, the eyes moved—slow, deliberate. Then a flash of lightning lit the scene: a dog, drenched and shivering, chained to a post. Relief flooded her chest. She approached slowly, knelt beside it, and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.” The dog wagged its tail. Two lost souls, protecting each other from the storm.

Entry 73
The sound of the rain was like a gentle sigh, a release after a long day of sunshine. Travelling on the roads were a sweet couple who were returning from their journey of joy. Although the crestfallen atmosphere was a reflection of the sudden strain in their relationship due to the tiff that took place beforehand. The girl stepped out of the vehicle and embraced the rain that showered upon her. The girl started to dance in a joyful manner which caught the eye of her partner who admired her gracefully. He smiled softly and accompanied her. Together they embraced all their woes and danced till the sun set..

Entry 74

The stress pounded him like a dagger. His mind was going berserk as the past kept polluting his brain with all the bad memories. He could not take it anymore and stormed out in anger. Suddenly, he was greeted with a shower of rainfall which seemed to have washed all the stress away. He embraced the rain like a carefree child and smiled as he felt in peace at last. His lady love was surprised to see this new form of him. He glared back at her and invited her to accompany him in making the most of this mesmerising monsoon. Together they shared a graceful dance..

Entry 75

The bright moon shone amongst the pitch black sky. Beneath it were two individuals learning dance. It was a warm summers day so they were taking pleasure in the outdoors. Suddenly, it started raining and within seconds everyone became drenched. However, this didn’t foil the dance practice as it encouraged the individuals even more to make the most of this moment by dancing in this beautiful monsoon. The radio started to play Kuch Kuch Hota Hai which lightened the atmosphere and the couple embraced each other to dance together.

Entry 76

The Way You Rained on Me

The train swayed, rain kissing the windows like a love letter. Armaan stood still—until her laughter floated through the storm. Ridhima. A stranger, yet familiar, like a song he’d forgotten.

She brushed past him, eyes meeting his with the gentleness of thunder held back.

“Rain makes the world softer,” she whispered.

“Or maybe just you,” he breathed.

Their hands touched—accidentally, deliberately. Time blurred. So did reason.

Around them, chaos reigned. Inside them, silence bloomed.

A heartbeat. A breath. A universe rewritten. No past. No future.

Just her in his rain-soaked world.

And him, falling—slowly, sweetly—into a monsoon he never wanted to end.

Entry 77

Monsoon Guest

The first drops kissed the window. She moved without thinking — two plates, two cups, one slightly chipped. A quiet ritual.
They’d been seven when the flood took him. One moment holding hands in the street, the next — her fingers empty.
No one spoke of it anymore.
But each monsoon, the house felt fuller. The lights flickered just once. The curtains swayed, though no wind passed.
Most would call her mad. Maybe they’re right.
But if the storm grows wild enough, she still hears it — faint, familiar —
“Di!”
Some absences never leave. Especially the ones that still knock, once a year, with the rain.

Entry 78

Monsoon Muse

Coffee steamed in her Shinchan mug, untouched beside the laptop.
Deadlines loomed; the editor would knock soon. Her head heavy from trying too hard.

On the balcony swing, city chaos buzzed—whistles, honks, the pressure of mid-afternoon.

Then came laughter. Giddy, unfiltered.
Children splashed through puddles, shrieking in the downpour.
One muddy boy tugged his mother to join, just like she used to.

Forgotten memories stirred—soaked uniforms, fretting mothers, giggling partners in crime.
A smile cracked open. So did her laptop. Fingers hovered over the keyboard as she keyed in the title of her latest inspiration:

As long as the inner child is alive, childhood isn’t dead.

Entry 79

Rain Rituals

At the bus stop, rain drummed gently on the tin roof. Across the street, a pakora stall sizzled to life, filling the air with spice and memory. Her mother had always made them for the season’s first rain, while her father who hated fried food, devoured them with a joy she never understood. Perhaps it was never about food.
Now both were gone, yet in that scent, they felt near again.
The school bus arrived. Her child ran into her arms, muddy and laughing, tugging her toward the stall. She didn’t resist.
As long as love lives on in small rituals, those we’ve lost never truly leave.

Entry 80

Shared Shelter

They hadn’t exchanged more than shy smiles since he moved in — stolen glances from their balconies and the occasional brush of silence in hallway. Nothing more.
Until today.
She stood stranded near the corner shop, caught without an umbrella. The rain poured, relentless. Then he appeared — calm and kind.
“Shall we?” he asked, lifting his umbrella slightly.
At her doorstep, just as he turned to leave, she surprised herself. “Would you… join me for tea and pakoras?”
He nodded. She stepped inside, shy but triumphant.
If the thunder hadn’t been so loud, she might’ve heard his heart burst with joy.

Entry 81

Home

The interview had gone badly. Again.He walked back through the downpour, resume damp, spirit heavier.
The city felt too fast, too polished — nothing like the quiet village he’d left.

Then, near the corner shop, he saw her — his sweet neighbour, stranded without an umbrella.He almost turned away. But then she looked up. And smiled.

Moments later, they walked beneath his umbrella, the silence between them gentle, not awkward.

At her doorstep, just as he turned to leave, she asked if he’d like to come in for tea and pakoras.

His tired heart stirred awake.And just like that — the city didn’t feel cold anymore.Because she felt like home.

Entry 82

When Rain Reaches Home

The village danced with joy — parched soil sighed with relief, birds chirped in chorus, and the fields swayed to the rhythm of approaching rain.

But one heart didn’t join in.

A mother stood still on the veranda, mind adrift in the city where her son now lived. Was he eating well? Did he find kindness in the crowd?

She turned to gather drying clothes when the familiar trinket of the postman’s cycle reached her ears.

A letter. Her son was fine. She smiled through damp lashes.As the sky thundered and the winds howled, her heart — for the first time in days — quieted.

Entry 83

The Last Delivery

The wind howled louder as the old postman pedalled harder, determined to finish his rounds before the storm broke. Letters were rare now — messages shrunk into screens, his route growing shorter each season. Today, he carried just one. The last one of his career. He handed it to the expecting mother on the edge of village. Her face lit up like the first rain, and something in him stirred. Three decades of memories flooded back — love confessions, condolences, wedding invites, exam results. He cycled home slowly, heart full. His job was vanishing, yes — but what a privilege it had been, to deliver people their moments. Behind him the rain began .

Entry 84

They were racing back home, hand in hand, giggling as rain soaked through their uniforms.
The water was rising — ankle-deep, then knee-deep — but they thought it was still a game. Thunder cracked. A gust howled. She turned to shout something, but his fingers slipped from hers.

Just like that. One moment of laughter. One blink too long.And the street was empty.

They searched for days. His schoolbag was found near the riverbend. Nothing else.

Now, each monsoon brings the same ache — a phantom tug at her hand, a name caught in the wind.

Some say he drowned. But she knows better. He’s just taking the long way home.

Entry 85

Water was everywhere.
Their house was now just a distant memory—walls crumbled, toys floating, Ma’s bangles buried in the sludge.

Baba held her hand tight as they trudged toward higher ground, soaked and silent.

Then she saw it . a shivering puppy tangled in a plastic bag, eyes wide like hers.

"Can we keep him?" she whispered.

Baba looked at their soaked bags, the endless camp ahead… and nodded.

She wrapped the pup in her scarf, cradling him close. He licked her chin, tail wagging weakly.
She smiled and whispered, “You lost your home too, huh? Same pinch, we are best friends now.”

Entry 86

You remember me only when it rains too much or too little.

You blame the heavens,fold your hands like I’m the one who cut down the forests,
paved over the rivers,choked the skies.

Still — I listen. I remember the girl who begged me to save her boat .

The farmer who asked not for riches, but for clouds.
The boy who held a shivering pup and whispered, “Please don’t let him die.”

I gave you fire. Water. Soil.Each other.

You remember me in chaos. But I have always been in the silence after.

Entry 87

The First Drop

Rain is a blessing for farmers. But when drought struck our village, it cracked not just the land, but hearts and lives.

While others sold their lands and fled to cities, I stayed back , a farmer named Krishna, like the god of rain and fertility.

Jewelry gone. Children out of school. Debts unpaid . One meal a day. Still, I ploughed, believing the sky would listen to me . My body gave up . I collapsed in the field.

And then… a drop. A single drop on my face. Not sweat. Not a tear. Its Rain . No , its not just rain.

A drop of blessing !

Entry 88

Just a Mother

“Chintu, Chotu! Don’t play in the rain. See how responsible your elder brother Chinna is,” Mom shouted. “Come eat. Chiki and Chinki are waiting. Only a few rotis left.”

She split them among her five children and starved. Again. The roof leaked. The rain poured harder. At night, she wrapped them in her arms, shielding them from the cold.

By morning, the roof had collapsed.

On the news: A mother dog died in the rain saving her puppies. The puppies survived. Hope they will get adopted.

Just a mother . Giving everything to her children . Be it paws or palms.

we call it as love !

Entry 89

Just like falling rain

“Aaj bhi wahi karela ki sabzi, Radha?” Madhav grumbled

“If you want to eat, eat. I’m leaving,” she snapped, grabbing her bag.

“Take your umbrella,” he said .While she slammed the door and left to work.

He forgot their anniversary. She was upset. By evening, it poured. Radha searched her bag. No umbrella. A voice called, “Here.”Madhav stood there holding her umbrella. “I saw you left it.” She smiled. They walked together, like in their teenage days — giggling under a plastic sheet.

As they walked:

“Kal nahi banaogi na karela ki sabzi?” He asked

“Pata nahi,” she said. They both laughed. Just like falling rain !

Entry 90

Life doesn’t end until it ends.

“Grandma, I’m tired of this lecture,” Aadhya yelled . “You’ll never understand my pain.”

“I understand more than you know,” Grandma Daya said softly. “But pain won’t end by locking yourself inside room . Go , Listen to nature. Feel how raindrops tap stories on your skin. Hear the giggles of playing children even when they have no roof. Listen to thunder , not as fear, but as a drum of courage. ”

She left the room, door open.

A cold breeze touched Aadhya’s face. She heard rain.

Slowly, using her stick, she stepped out to the balcony and stretched her hand out .

Raindrops kissed her hand. She couldn’t see it. But she felt it. Just like music !

Entry 91

Monsoon Veil

Rain reveals true colours. On a bus to a remote village, Jyoti overheard people talk about mysterious deaths during monsoon. She got scared . A soft voice beside her assured that they were rumours.

“I’m Tamira,” she smiled. They talked and become friendly .

At her stop, Tamira got off. Later, Jyoti did too. It was pitch-dark. She sensed someone following. Suddenly , somone grabbed her neck with a knife . Jyoti fought back, pushed the attacker down, and pulled out her gun.

Tamira exposed as the serial killer. Gunshot. Phone rings.

“Officer Jyoti , Is the job done?” asked the voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Jyoti replied.

Justice served and it rained heavily .

Entry 92

Rain, cups of chai, and precious memories.

Rain drizzled over the thatched roof of the rustic tea shop as Naina enjoyed hot masala chai and samosa. She suddenly began to sketch the memories of her first love with a wistful smile.

One of their first dates was at the same tea shop. They laughed over endless conversations, stealing glances. Aarav twirled her around. He held her tightly as they walked sharing the umbrella. Even in the pouring rain, she felt safe in his arms.

Suddenly, his voice said, “You still remember it haan?”

She looked at the sketch, their precious memories of that special day.

And the couple laughed again, another precious day over rain, snacks, conversations.

Entry 93

Rain falls, indifferent to our days, troubles, or routines. It simply descends, destined to meet the ground. Is that its only purpose? Droplet after droplet tumbles down. Wipers push them aside, umbrellas divert their path. A deep rumble follows. Is this just science at work? The sea accepts the new water, rising. Waves kiss the shore, mingling with rain, freshwater and salt becoming one. Lightning flashes as if to be seen, to make its presence known. Thunder answers, playing its part. We are no match for nature. So just stand still, eyes closed, face turned upward. Let the rain slowly drench you, surrounds you, caresses you.

Entry 94

Outside, the storm has broken out. It's too dark to see the rain, but I can hear it pounding relentlessly and mercilessly on the streets, on the rooftops, on the umbrellas of people hurrying down the street. It runs down the windows of shops and cafes. Children watch droplets chase each other down the rear window of a car, placing silent bets. The sky flares in a rhapsody of black, cobalt, violet, and white.

It's coming. I feel it, I feel it... And then, BOOM!!! There's the flash that explodes into thunder. Tonight, the world stops and watches the drops fall like applause from heaven.

Entry 95

Mr. Darcy's words still echoed around her, obliterating everything around her. He had declared his love for her. Those words, spoken with such difficulty, had fallen upon her like the rain they had found themselves under.

Each syllable, each feeling, had landed like a cold drop against warm skin. She remembered his lips. Drops of rain slowly fell from the corners of his mouth, then ran down his chin, his neck, and slipped under his shirt.

That summer storm had struck her, as had Mr. Darcy's gaze. The raindrops nestled between his lashes, embellishing them. His breath against her face- the fire in him burning close, undeniable.

Entry 96

The apology arrived like the monsoon. Loud, messy, impossible to ignore.
Lydia stood under the awning, umbrella forgotten, as Archer jogged up. Wet, breathless, utterly ridiculous.
His hoodie clung to him, the words "Raincheck rebel " barely legible.
In his hands: a soggy cardboard sign, marker smudged with hope.
“I MESSED UP. DO YOU THINK RAIN CAN WASH THAT AWAY?”

He looked like every half-finished sentence she never got to say.

“I dreamt about your laugh last night,” he added. “Woke up crying.”
She blinked, rain dripping from her lashes.
“I brought hot chocolate. And dry socks?”

Silence. She took the cup. Sipped.

“Next time, don’t wait for the rain.”

Entry 97

It was pouring rain the day Maya welcomed Rhett, a newborn wrapped only in a damp, patched blanket. Years of rain passed, wetting memories of sleepless nights, laughter, and first steps. Rhett grew up tall, kind, brilliant. At 18, with a scholarship to Harvard, he stood on the stage at his graduation. Outside, it was still raining. “Everyone was asking me where my real mom was,” he said. “She’s here. She didn’t give me life… she saved me.” As the applause erupted, Rhett stepped off the stage, the rain pelting the windows. He hugged Maya and said “You are my sunshine, even on rainy days, Mama”.

Entry 98

That afternoon, the bell had just rung when it started raining. The children ran to the porch, but some remained outside, holding out their hands.

"Teacher, why did the downpour surprise us like this?"

"Because the sky, sometimes, likes to play unexpectedly." She replied back

"And why does it blow so hard?"

"It's singing ancient songs to the trees and rooftops."

"Teacher, will the downpour stop soon?" Asked another kid

"Maybe so, but in the meantime, let's listen to its music."

"And why do I feel happy in the rain?" "Because when the sky dance with the water, the heart also feels unburdened. And in those moments, everything seems lighter."

Entry 99

The rain fell lightly, like a breath on my skin. When I saw him, under the usual streetlight, with a small bouquet of pink magnolias, my heart did that same silent leap. Magnolias… I've always found them too big. I'd told him it, laughing, years ago. But he kept bringing them to me.

"I've never known how to choose the right flowers for you, but I've always chosen you," he'd told me one evening, without asking for anything in return. And now we were there, wet, still, as if time were waiting for us. I took the flowers. And I smiled. Because sometimes, truly loving is just staying.

Entry 100

The rain was falling lightly, but between them, it was a storm. Once, a caress had been enough to feel safe. Now, every word was a wound, every silence a held goodbye. She stood under the shelter. He stood in the rain, wet and stubborn, as if the cold could wash away his pride.

“This wasn't supposed to end this way” she whispered.
“Love wasn't supposed to hurt” he replied, his eyes as red as his shaking hands.

The storm exploded above them, wild and merciless. And it’s clear that neither of them knew how to stop loving. But it wasn't the sky that was screaming. It was their hearts.

Entry 101

It's raining heavily. Maddy comes home soaked, tired, and nervous. Her father is in front of the TV asleep. Her mother, from the kitchen, yells that she has to wash her clothes alone. As always. They argue about bills, money, old things, and unresolved grudges. But they're there. Present. Dysfunctional, but present. There's a plate with a cold sandwich on the table. The smell of home, even if it's crooked. The rain beats on the windows, drowning out the screams. Maddy says nothing, but stays. Because despite everything, that's home. Not perfect, not peaceful, but real. And sometimes, just being there is enough. Even in the rain.

Entry 102

The rain fell relentlessly, as if it wanted to erase everything. But it couldn't. He was there, soaked, his eyes fixed on us.

"She chose me!" he said, his voice cracking.

I looked at him, still. "Did she?"

Because he saw her. He saw when she opened her umbrella, took three steps... and then came to me. A small, silent gesture. But it was enough. She didn't take my hand. She didn't say anything. But she stopped beside me, and the umbrella covered us both. And under that rain, for the first time, I didn't feel alone. I felt chosen.

Entry 103

The sound of rain on the leaves, the scent of wet earth, the birds chirping, and I lie there savoring the awakening of this day, stretched out in my bed, with a candle’s light and incense’s scent. Outside, the sky weeps softly, as if trying to wash away the invisible wounds of the world. The drops trace little melodies on the glass, and I follow them with my gaze, losing myself in that slow flow. Nothing else is needed: the rain is enough for me. It brings silence, peace, and that strange nostalgia that warms the heart. A new day is born under the rain, and I smile at it.

Entry 104

Aryan stood by the window, listening to the rain and the whispering breeze. The season’s first shower—her favorite. Imlie used to say the scent of wet earth smelled like home, like Pagdandiya. Today, it almost felt like she was there. He smiled, remembering her tugging his hand, begging him to dance in the rain. When he’d protest, she’d pout—hand outstretched, please on her lips, knowing it was his undoing.

“Little minx,” he used to whisper, giving in, always.

That smile—bright as lightning—was his alone. Now, all he felt was a cold absence in place of the warm hugs that used to be his home.

Entry 105

The umbrella barely covered them, but he held her close, shielding her from the rain and the world. She laughed, head tucked beneath his chin. “This isn’t working.”

“It’s working perfectly,” he said.

The traffic roared past, the sky cried above, but in that tiny pocket of warmth, everything slowed. She would leave in two days, to a different city and would lead a different life. But right now, her fingers curled around his, and he tightened his grip— as if love could be held like that.

Even when he knew it couldn’t.

Entry 106

The wind snatched her hat and sent it tumbling down the platform; he caught it mid-air, just as she turned, breathless, rain trailing down her face. Their eyes met—hers wide and laughing, framed by soaked lashes, a moment suspended between strangers.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than the rain.

He meant to reply, but the words caught in his throat. For a moment, everything else—noise, motion, time—blurred into the downpour. The blast of horn brought him back to reality -- Hat in hand, he stood still, heart strangely full. Some people pass through like rain—brief, beautiful, unforgettable.

Gone before you knew you needed them to stay.

Entry 107

Rain poured, but he didn’t flinch—his tiny hand still grasped hers tight. “Ma, we’ll get wet!” he squealed, hesitating at the doorway. His mother just smiled, slipping off her sandals. “So? Getting wet isn’t the worst thing, beta. Missing it is.”

She tugged his hand and pulled him into the downpour. Puddles splashed, thunder clapped, and he laughed for the first time that week. She twirled, rain in her hair, eyes closed like the storm was music. In that moment, he wasn’t just a boy in the rain.

He was her boy—in the safest place on earth: next to the woman who taught him joy could be loud, messy, and wet.

Entry 108

The first drop hit her nose, and she grinned. “It’s starting!” Before he could answer, she grabbed his hand, pulled him into the courtyard, her bangles jingling louder than the thunder.

“Dance with me,” she said, already spinning, soaked and radiant.

“I don’t dance,” he began—then she crashed into him, laughing, rain pouring around them.

He followed her, he couldn't help but do. She pulled him close, no music but thunder and her heartbeat against his.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips. “I never had the right partner,” he said, kissing her like the storm didn’t exist. And in the downpour, love found its rhythm.

Entry 109

It rains the day Aryan signs the release papers. She lies motionless, their unborn child a heartbeat he can’t feel.

Pagdandiya smells of wet earth—petrichor. Her favorite. She used to close her eyes and breathe it in like a promise. "Rain forgives everything," Imlie once told him, drenched, grinning, dragging him into the storm. He never told her how that moment saved him. Now, he stands in the downpour outside the hospital, numb, drenched in everything left unsaid. “I never stopped loving you,” he whispers to the sky.

The rain fell, relentless, mirroring the tears he couldn't shed, a constant, aching reminder of what was irrevocably gone.

Entry 110

He never hated the rain—until it took everything he held dear. That night, the sky cracked open too late. Arpita was already on her way, unaware the roads ahead would drown in grief. The thunder didn’t warn—it silenced. Since then, every drop feels like betrayal.

He watches his children sleep, their dreams stitched with a mother’s absence. Three hearts were irrevocably broken that night and no sun, no season or reason could ever put them back. Years later, whenever it rains, Yash still freezes. Because the world calls it weather. But for him, it’s the sound of loss, an echo of goodbye. The day his love died.

Entry 111

The window crashed open, wind howling as rain slapped her face, sharp and sudden. She gasped, startled, her book slipping from her lap and hitting the floor, pages spreading like wings. She’d been drifting—lost in the idea of him, in memories that felt softer than the truth.

The storm didn’t ask; it barged in, wild and cold, like grief that never really left. Heart pounding, she stood and slammed the window shut. The room was soaked, and so was she. Sometimes, it took a storm to remind her: he was gone.

And no matter how much it hurt—
she was still here.

Entry 112

Rain tapped gently on the window, and Meera paused, teacup in hand. The scent of wet earth always brought him back—Grandpa, with his paper boats and pocketful of boiled sweets. They'd sit by the verandah, legs dangling, counting thunder between flashes. He’d hum old songs, off-key, while she danced in circles, arms outstretched.

“Rain’s just the sky playing,” he once said, handing her a warm towel and a grin.

Years later, she still smiled when it stormed. No boats now, no humming voice—but every monsoon, she’d open the window wide, let the breeze in, and remember how love once sounded in the rain.

Entry 113

Rain drummed on the tin roof like a lullaby. Mira stood barefoot, sari soaked and clinging, arms outstretched as the sky poured down. Beside her, Aarav shrieked with delight, stomping puddles like they were treasure. She smiled—he was her reflection, years younger, spinning in her mother’s courtyard, wild with wonder. In the rhythm of the rain, she could almost hear her mother’s laughter.

“Mama, dance with me!” he called, eyes wide with joy.

She blinked, reverie broken, and took his hand.

And she danced—because one day, he’d remember not the house or the clothes, but this: the rain, and how love felt weightless for a while.

Entry 114

Rain was an emotion to her—a beautiful language spoken by the drops. It carried weight, like people do: sometimes cruel, sometimes impossibly tender. She watched how it coaxed petals to bloom, how trees trembled—sometimes in fear, sometimes in awe. Rain could shift stories, even rewrite fates.

But it never came alone. First, the thunderstorm—wild, unflinching, tearing through without apology. It wrecked what stood too proud, too unsteady, too new. Yet those who endured were offered something rare: A rainbow. Exhilarating. Undeniably beautiful. It was as if the sky itself whispered, Yes! You made it and you’re still here.

That feeling—of surviving the storm—was what petrichor meant to a rain lover.

Entry 115

Familiar blue eyes. When was the last time she'd seen them? When they'd ran through the streets hand in hand, making their way home. It'd been raining hard, but the cold wetness had been nothing against the warmth of their hearts.

No, she reminded herself. The last time she'd seen those eyes was on a hospital bed. Cold. Dead.

Now, the eyes looking back at her weren't dead anymore. But they were definitely cold. And... hungry.

She backtracked, only to hit a wall that wasn't there a moment before.

The eyes smiled. Still cold. She closed her own. Fighting was futile. The rain started.

"Come, darling. Let's go home."

Entry 116

Closing her umbrella, Rani wrung out her wet hair. Until the rain lessened, they could stay here.

Looking around, the cave seemed well-maintained. There were several statues — some animal, some human — all in pristine condition. Not a speck of dirt, either.

The statues looked very realistic.

Rani dug out her phone, hoping to play some music, when she noticed the statue in the furthest corner. It looked... very much like her.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

Rani spun around. Her boyfriend was smiling widely at her, a mad glint in his eyes.

Rani smiled back.

"Music?" she offered, playing her favourite.

Her boyfriend turned to stone right before her eyes. Wonderful, indeed.

Entry 117

Standing by the palace window, she watches the royal garden get sprinkled by raindrops.

"Jodha Begum?" Her husband walks up to her.

"Monsoon has arrived, Shahenshah," she says quietly.

He understands immediately. “Missing your homeland?”

"Amer is beautiful when it rains."

Akbar holds out a hand. “Come with me?”

He leads her to the courtyard, where several musicians have gathered. At his nod, the first notes of Megh Mallar fill the air. It's a Rajasthani bandish they've chosen. She looks at him, a surprised smile in her eyes. He smiles back knowingly. As the music rains and the rain sings, the two souls entwine in a language of their own.

Entry 118

Too late for regrets

It was raining.

Pouring down in torrents that left rivulets of water flowing past his shoes.

He had never liked monsoons, unable to see its allure past all the muddy potholes.

However, today it seemed befitting. Like the heavens were expressing their sorrow too.

His family stood right beside him, and yet, seemed so far beyond reach. Grief had brought them all together, willing to forget all personal disputes. Salty tears mingled with the rain water as apologies fell from their lips.

But wasn’t it too late for regrets? he pondered, as his own name stared back from the gravestone.

Entry 119

The umbrella

She stood there, trying to open the infernal umbrella.

It was a family heirloom, something that her sixteen-year-old self had been skeptical about. Afterall, it looked plain, nothing to show for its supposed prestige.

“You’ll see someday” her mother had said, followed by a little wink.

But standing here a decade later, drenched from head to toe, she couldn’t help cursing the stupid object. Just as she was ready to give up, the rain suddenly stopped hitting her.

Looking up, she saw a young man holding his umbrella over her. As their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat.

Oh!

Entry 120

The Unconventional Innovator

She ran through the streets, not minding the puddles for once.

After listening to her relentless complaints about wet shoes, he had decided to do something about it.

Whenever she had a problem, he always offered unique solutions. And while the Pet Rock™ (because she didn’t have time to care for an actual pet) had been… dubious at best; the Air Conditioner Hat™ (for sunny days) was a life changer.

Wondering what he would have in store for her today, she tore open the packet hastily.

“So?” He asked eagerly.

“Err” was all she could manage, looking at the Shoe-brellas™.

Entry 121

As Stubborn as the Rain

Tara was on her way home, and it was raining, just as heavy as her heart. Suddenly she froze as the lightning lit up a dark figure standing next to her. As she blinked, she was back in time. Dev, her late boyfriend, stood there, with the same heartwarming smile.

She ran to him, hugged him tight as the rain matched the rhythm of her heartbeat.

He looked into her eyes. “The rain never gives up. Sometimes light, sometimes loud, but it keeps trying. You should too.”

She nodded, tearful. Thunder struck again. She was back to present, smiling softly. Ready to live again. As stubborn as the rain.

Entry 122

Paws in the Rain

Raghav hated the rain. He was wrapped in a blanket, all grumpy. Suddenly, they heard a soft bark. His daughter Miya rushed to the door, finding a cute, trembling puppy.

“Papa, can we keep her warm?” she asked, pleading.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only for a few hours.”

They warmed her up, fed her milk. She snuggled against him. Miya placed the pup in his lap. The little dog looked up at his human as thunder rattled the windowpanes.

Something melted. He cuddled it. Night fell.

“Can she stay?” Miya whispered.

Raghav smiled. “Yes.”

And for the first time, he silently thanked the rain for this cute new member.