THE COLORS WE CARRY

Rain always smelled like possibility to Kiana. It rolled across the tin roofs of Greenhollow Estate in steady waves, tapping on windows like a patient visitor. Most people hated walking in it, but Kiana lingered in it, letting the cool drops slip down her cheeks as she crossed the market square after school. She always said rain made noise where her voice couldn’t. At seventeen, she was the kind of girl who blended into hallways despite her height, the kind who spent more time sketching in her notebook than participating in group chats. Her eyes—soft brown, like the color of old novels—noticed everything, even the things nobody expected her to see. She noticed the cracks in people’s voices. She noticed when someone’s smile dimmed at the edges. She noticed too much, sometimes. This afternoon, her attention was pulled toward the bus shelter across from the plaza. Someone stood inside it, shaking water out of a bright yellow hoodie like she was trying to wring the storm out of her life. The hoodie was oversized, swallowing her frame, and the girl underneath it looked like a spark in a world that had gone dim. Kiana slowed down. She didn’t know why she stared. Maybe it was the hoodie’s bold color against the gloomy sky. Maybe it was the way the girl laughed to herself as she failed to fold her umbrella properly. Or maybe—though Kiana didn’t dare name the feeling yet—it was because she was beautiful. The girl looked up at that exact moment. Their eyes met through sheets of falling rain. Kiana’s breath tangled in her throat, the way it always did when something unexpected knocked the world slightly off balance. The girl smiled—quick, warm, and unafraid. Kiana instantly looked away, pretending to tie her shoelace even though it was already tied. Smooth, she scolded herself. Very smooth. When she stood again, the girl in the yellow hoodie was crossing the street toward her. Oh no. Oh… yes? “Hey!” the girl called, voice bright as mango juice. “You dropped this.” Kiana blinked. “Dropped what?” The girl held up… a leaf. A soggy almond-shaped leaf. “That’s… definitely not mine,” Kiana said, confused. The girl laughed, the sound bubbling up like it had been waiting all afternoon to be released. “Okay, I know. But you looked like you wanted to run away. Thought I’d give you an excuse to stay.” Kiana’s cheeks warmed despite the rain. “I wasn’t running.” “You were absolutely running.” Running from you, she didn’t say. “I’m Zara,” the girl continued, flipping her braided ponytail behind her shoulder. The braid was streaked with small colorful threads—pink, green, gold—as if her hair had been collecting small celebrations. “Kiana,” she replied quietly. “Pretty name.” Zara grinned. “So, Kiana-who-definitely-runs-away-from-strangers, are you waiting for the bus?” “No. I’m walking home.” “In the rain?” Zara raised an eyebrow. “Bold.” “It’s just water.” “That’s exactly what my grandma says before she spends a week complaining about catching a cold.” Kiana laughed, and it shocked her a little. She wasn’t used to laughing so easily around someone she’d just met. She wasn’t used to feeling seen without anyone trying. Zara studied her face for a moment, not in a rude way, but in an observant one—like she was trying to memorize the subtle details most people overlooked. “You go to Westbrook High, right?” “Yeah. You?” “Just transferred,” Zara said. “My first week. You were in the hallway by the art room yesterday. You were drawing something on your sleeve.” Kiana froze. She hadn’t realized anyone had noticed her tiny scribbles of stars and shapes during break time. “You saw that?” Zara’s smile softened. “I notice people who look like they’re living in their own world. Makes me wonder what that world looks like.” Kiana’s heart tripped over itself. She forced her voice to steady. “It’s just a nervous habit.” “Well,” Zara said, stepping closer, “your nervous habits are cute.” Kiana nearly forgot how to breathe. Before she could respond, the rattling sound of an incoming bus broke the moment. The shelter filled with noise—brakes screeching, passengers chattering, rain thudding harder than ever. Zara glanced at the arriving bus, then at Kiana. “This is mine.” “Oh,” Kiana said, surprising herself with how disappointed she sounded. “But…” Zara tugged a pen from her hoodie pocket and reached for Kiana’s hand. “Hold still.” Before Kiana could react, Zara gently turned her palm upward and scribbled something across her skin. Zara’s handwriting curled beautifully like vines. When she finished, she closed Kiana’s fingers over the inked letters. “Text me,” Zara said. “If you want.” She stepped back toward the bus, then hesitated at the open door. “I hope I see you again—even if it takes another storm.” And just like that, she disappeared inside, swallowed by passengers and windows fogged with breath. Kiana stared at her hand. ZARA – 0814 88… The ink had already started to smudge from the rain, but the letters remained legible, like they refused to fade. A strange, fluttering warmth pooled in her chest. Not fear, exactly. Not excitement alone, either. Something deeper. Something she’d never allowed herself to fully name. As she walked home through the thickening rain, the world felt different—sharper, brighter, louder somehow. She moved slowly, afraid the ink on her hand might vanish if she moved too fast. The yellow hoodie lingered in her thoughts like sunlight trapped behind her eyelids. At home, her mother called from the kitchen, “Kiana, you’re soaked! Why didn’t you take the bus?” “I… didn’t need to,” she said softly, unable to explain the real reason. Later, in her room, she sat on her bed staring at her hand again. Her heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to speak. She picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. Was she really doing this? Hi. It’s Kiana. Send. She placed her phone face down, heart thundering. It buzzed almost immediately. She flipped it over. Zara: Took you long enough. Zara: So… what are you doing tonight? Kiana smiled, the kind of smile she didn’t have to hide in the dark. She typed back, simply: Nothing yet. The rain continued outside, drumming against her window—steady, patient, familiar. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like possibility. It felt like beginning.