One last rainy season

2

The morning light spilled in through the curtains, pale and stubborn, tugging Dara out of the shallow sleep she had finally surrendered to. For a moment, she didn’t move. She let her eyes travel across the ceiling, tracing the tiny cracks in the paint that hadn’t been there when she was seventeen. The ceiling fan groaned above her, its blades rotating with the same tired rhythm as they had back then. Nothing had changed, and yet, everything had.

Her old room still smelled faintly of lavender, her mother’s doing. The faded posters of artists she once swore she couldn’t live without clung stubbornly to the walls. A stuffed bear, its fur worn thin, slumped in the corner where she had tossed it after her last fight with Ethan. She remembered that night so vividly—too vividly. The words, the tears, the silence that had stretched and finally broken into goodbye. She had left the bear behind when she packed for college, thinking she would never need reminders. But here it was, waiting, like it knew she would crawl back one day.

With a groan, Dara pushed herself upright, hugging her knees to her chest. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with messages from her friends in the city. Group chats, pictures from last night’s bar crawl, inside jokes she was already too far away from to understand. She silenced the notifications without opening them.

She stood and padded across the room, her bare feet brushing against the cool tile floor. The mirror on her dresser caught her reflection, making her pause. Her hair was tangled from sleep, her eyes shadowed, her lips pressed thin. This was the face of a woman trying to outrun something, though she didn’t want to name what.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of plates and her mother’s voice floated up the stairwell. Breakfast. The thought of facing her family made her chest tighten, but she squared her shoulders anyway.

---

The kitchen was already alive when Dara slipped in. Her mother, in her favorite wrapper, was at the stove frying plantains, her movements practiced and efficient. The air was rich with the scent of eggs and fresh bread. Dara’s father sat at the table, glasses perched on his nose as he scanned the morning paper, grunting occasionally in response to whatever he was reading.

“You’re awake,” her mother said without turning. There was warmth in her voice, but also a certain sharpness, as if she had been expecting Dara to sleep half the day.

“Morning,” Dara murmured, sliding into a chair.

Her father peered over his glasses. “You look tired. The city life is draining you, eh?”

Dara managed a smile. “Something like that.”

Her younger brother, Nathan, bounded into the kitchen then, taller than she remembered and with a new swagger that made her blink. “Look who finally remembered we exist,” he teased, grabbing a piece of bread before their mother could swat his hand.

“I was busy,” Dara said, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself.

Her mother set a plate of golden plantains and eggs on the table. “Busy running away, more like.”

The words stung, though her mother didn’t say them cruelly. Dara busied herself with serving food, but the silence that followed made it clear the jab had landed.

“So, how long are you staying?” her father asked, folding the newspaper and fixing her with that familiar stare that always demanded an honest answer.

“A while,” Dara said carefully. “I need some time. To figure things out.”

Her parents exchanged a look she knew too well—concern mixed with the unspoken weight of expectations. She was twenty-three, with a degree in her pocket but no clear career, no fiancé, no definitive plan to flaunt. In this town, that made her an anomaly.

---

After breakfast, she wandered outside, craving air. The sun was brighter now, gilding the houses in warm light. The neighborhood had aged in curious ways. Some homes were freshly painted, others sagged with neglect. The main street was livelier than she remembered—hawkers calling out their goods, children chasing each other barefoot, neighbors gossiping by the corner shop.

Dara walked slowly, her hands tucked into her pockets, drinking it all in. Everywhere she looked, memories ambushed her. There was the old mango tree where she and Ethan had carved their initials. The narrow alley where they had shared their first kiss, hurried and clumsy. The market square where they had once argued for nearly an hour about something neither could remember now.

Her chest tightened. She had come back for peace, but peace was the last thing her hometown offered. It was haunted with echoes of Ethan—Ethan, who was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Dara?”

She turned to see Mrs. Patel, the kindly shop owner, smiling at her from the doorway of the store. “Is it really you? You’ve grown into such a fine young woman.”

Dara forced a smile. “It’s me. I’m back for a while.”

Mrs. Patel’s eyes twinkled. “Your parents must be so glad. And… you’ll see him, won’t you? Ethan has done so well for himself. The whole town talks about him. His family—oh, they are like royalty now.”

The name hung in the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore. Dara’s smile wavered. “Maybe,” she said softly, before making her excuses and walking away.

---

By the time she returned home, her mood was restless, her thoughts loud. She shut herself in her room and lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan again.

She told herself she had left the city because she needed a break, because she wanted quiet, because she missed home. But the truth pressed closer now, undeniable.

She had left because the city made her feel hollow. Because every failed relationship, every unfulfilled dream, every empty night out whispered the same thing: she had given her heart away once, and nothing since had measured up.

And now she was here, in the one place she swore she would never return, where Ethan’s shadow stretched longer than the town itself.

---

The following days settled into a routine. Mornings with her family. Afternoons wandering the streets. Evenings spent sketching in the little notebook she always carried. She began to notice things she hadn’t before—the way neighbors still lowered their voices when mentioning Ethan’s family, the pride laced with envy when they spoke of the estate on the hill.

The Dawsons had always been wealthy, but in the years Dara had been away, their fortune had swelled. Rumors swirled—new businesses, international connections, land. Ethan, it was said, had stepped seamlessly into his father’s shoes, carrying the family legacy with quiet confidence.

Dara pretended not to care. She told herself she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see. But every whisper, every passing comment, scraped against her like sandpaper.

At night, lying in her childhood bed, she wondered if he ever thought of her. If he even remembered the girl who had once been everything to him. Or if she was just another chapter he had outgrown, the way his family outgrew the town.

And beneath the bitterness, a truth pulsed steady and merciless.

She had never stopped loving him.