It was a rainy day.
Not the romantic kind poets write about. The drops were big. Heavy. The kind that soaks through your jacket before you even realize it's raining.
People say they love the rain.
They don't.
They love the idea of it — a cup of tea, a window, the sound of it from somewhere dry and safe. But when it actually comes, they run. They duck under awnings, hunch their shoulders, stare at their phones as if the weather app might undo what's already happening.
I never run from rain.
I open my favourite umbrella — the yellow one — and I step outside. I tilt my face up and let the drops land wherever they want. I find the biggest puddle I can, and I jump. Not by accident. On purpose, with both feet.
Maybe that's the difference between me and grown-ups.
They wait for the storm to pass.
I'm already dancing in it.
A big raindrop landed on my nose just then. It didn't hurt. It tickled. And I think it was trying to tell me something — not in words, but in the quiet, patient way rain always speaks. Without urgency. Without asking anything in return.
It touched the flowers, and they opened.
It touched the grass, and it grew greener.
It touched the dusty roads and washed them clean.
Then it climbed back into the sky —
and painted a rainbow.
I looked up.
I smiled.
Grown-ups are always waiting. For the right moment. The right mood. The right conditions before they allow themselves to feel something fully. They've learned to be careful with joy — to ration it, to earn it, to delay it until it's convenient.
But rain doesn't negotiate.
It doesn't wait for you to be ready.
It just comes — generous, indifferent, and quietly magnificent.
And if you're brave enough to stay, it shows you something beautiful.
