The Sketch In The Rain
874 Words
Chapter 3
The night it happened, the rain came down harder than usual not the gentle kind that whispered against windows, but the kind that blurred everything outside into watercolor. The kind that made you feel small and soft and strangely awake.
It was a Saturday, two weeks after I’d missed the missed bus. Luna’s had just closed for the night, and the streets were already emptying. I lingered inside, helping Tessa stack chairs and wipe down tables, mostly to avoid walking home in the downpour. When she finally shooed me out with a tired smile and a Go home, Maya, it’s just rain, I stepped into the night, guitar slung across my back, hoodie already soaked through.
Eli was standing across the street.
He hadn’t told me he’d be there. He rarely did. That was one of the things about him
He appeared like a recurring thought, unannounced but familiar.
He was holding his sketchbook close to his chest, jacket hood pulled over his head. When he saw me, he raised a hand slightly, not quite a wave, just a quiet hello that felt louder than it looked. I jogged across the street, splashing through shallow puddles.
You’re going to ruin that thing, I said, nodding toward his sketchbook.
He smiled. It’s already survived worse.
We ducked beneath the awning outside Luna’s the same cracked edge that dripped in two steady lines, like twin metronomes marking the rhythm of the storm. For a moment, it felt like déjà vu the bus stop, the rain, the waiting. Only this time, we weren’t strangers.
Couldn’t sleep, he said after a pause. I started drawing, and it just… felt unfinished. I thought maybe I’d find what I was missing here.
In the rain?
In the quiet, he said simply.
I laughed softly. You really like your quiet, huh?
He shrugged, eyes tracing the reflections in the puddles. It’s the only time I can hear myself think.
I wanted to tell him I understood that sometimes silence wasn’t empty but overflowing but before I could, he opened his sketchbook. The paper was already speckled with rain, but the drawing underneath was clear enough to see. It was me. Or at least, a version of me. Sitting on a curb, hair plastered to my face, guitar case beside me, head tilted toward the ground like I was listening to something only I could hear.
It wasn’t flattering or polished; it was raw. Honest.
My throat went tight. When did you draw this?
That first night, he said. At the bus stop. You looked like someone waiting for something that might never come. But you weren’t sad. Just… still. I couldn’t forget it.
He looked up then, rain streaking across his hood. I finished it tonight.
I didn’t know what to say. The rain filled the silence for me, tapping softly against the awning, the street, the open pages between us. The city lights reflected off the wet pavement, painting us in ripples of gold and gray.
It’s beautiful, I whispered. But I don’t think that’s me.
He smiled faintly. Maybe not anymore.
Something in that sentence made my heart falter the quiet way he said it, like he’d been watching me change and hadn’t meant to notice. Like he was proud of it and a little afraid of it, too.
I watched him for a while, the way his fingers hovered above the page, like he was still tempted to add something more. You should sign it, I said. Artists always sign their work.
He chuckled, closing the book. Maybe when it’s done.
But you just said it’s finished.
He looked at me, eyes steady. Some things don’t end just because the page runs out.
The words sat between us, heavy but gentle. I thought of The Missed Bus, all the times he’d shown up just when I thought the story was over. Maybe we were both writing different versions of the same thing only in sound and line instead of ink.
A gust of wind swept through the street then, sharp and cold. I shivered, pulling my hood tighter. Eli reached into his jacket and held out the corner of a scarf. Here, he said. You’re going to get sick.
I took it, but instead of wrapping it around myself, I pressed it against his sketchbook. You should keep this dry first.
He laughed softly that quiet, almost embarrassed laugh that I’d grown to like too much. You’re impossible.
I’ve been told.
We stood there for a long time, not talking. Just listening to the city breathe through the storm. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, I applied.
For what?
A residency. In Calloway. It’s an art program. They take a few students every summer. I didn’t think I’d get in, but He hesitated, glancing down. They replied tonight. I’m leaving in June.
I felt something twist inside me, sudden and sharp. June, I repeated. That’s soon.
Yeah.
That’s amazing, though, I said quickly, forcing a smile. You deserve it.
He looked like he wanted to believe me, but there was a flicker of something in his expression guilt, maybe, or sadness. I’ll come back, he said.
- Writer
