Chapter 2 Rain on Glass
1239 Words
The rain hadn’t let up since morning. It tapped against the office windows like it was trying to say something no one could quite understand. The sound, soft but persistent, filled the quiet room as Aira sat at her desk, her pencil moving in slow, thoughtful arcs over the blueprint.
She liked the silence. It wasn’t empty—it was full of things she couldn’t say out loud.
From across the room, she could hear the faint hum of Adrian’s voice as he spoke on the phone. Low, measured, gentle. He never raised his voice. Not once in the three weeks she’d worked under him.
He hung up, and she instinctively looked up. Their eyes met.
He didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of recognition—like he saw something in her too.
Aira quickly looked away.
It had been days since that night. The night they stayed late working. The night she tasted the remnants of his wife’s cooking. The night he said he liked the rain because it hid things.
Since then, something between them had shifted. It was small. Imperceptible to anyone else. But Aira felt it. In the way he paused when passing her desk. In the way his eyes lingered one second longer than necessary.
And in the way her own breath betrayed her whenever he stood too close.
The day passed slowly, soaked in the hush of gray skies and fluorescent lighting.
Just before lunch, Adrian stepped out of his office, holding two cups of coffee. He walked over to her desk, casually setting one down.
“You didn’t make your usual trip to the coffee shop,” he said.
“I forgot,” she murmured.
“You don’t forget things,” he said, tone mild.
Aira blinked. “Maybe I needed to.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if searching for more behind her words. But he didn’t push. He just nodded and turned away, returning to his glass-walled office.
She stared at the coffee. It was the same kind she always ordered—black, no sugar.
He remembered.
By 5 p.m., the rain had turned heavier. Thick sheets of water blurred the windows and muted the world outside. The office had started to empty, one by one, colleagues nodding polite goodbyes as they grabbed umbrellas and coats.
Aira stayed.
She had no plans. And she didn’t feel like facing the wet, cold world just yet.
Adrian hadn’t left either.
He was at his desk, absorbed in a design on his screen. One hand pressed to his temple, the other moving a mouse with slow precision. He looked tired. Not just physically, but... somewhere deeper.
After a moment of hesitation, Aira stood and walked to the kitchenette. She boiled water, opened the last tea sachet she kept in her drawer—green tea with jasmine—and poured it slowly into a cup.
Then, with a careful breath, she walked toward his office.
She knocked on the glass lightly. He looked up, surprised, but didn’t speak.
“I thought you might want tea,” she said.
He blinked once. “You didn’t make one for yourself.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d accept it.”
He looked at her for a long time. “Thank you, Aira.”
She placed the cup on the edge of his desk, then turned to leave.
“Aira,” he said quietly.
She paused.
He looked like he wanted to say something. There was a war behind his eyes—between restraint and honesty. But in the end, he only said, “It’s still raining hard. You should wait a while before heading home.”
She nodded. “I planned to.”
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Like they were sharing a secret.
She sat back at her desk, but she wasn’t working anymore. Her sketchbook was open, but her pencil had stilled.
Instead, she watched the rain.
The window beside her was fogged with condensation, but she didn’t wipe it away. She liked the way the world looked behind the blur. Like nothing had edges. Like everything could melt and disappear.
And then, without meaning to, she began to draw. Not the park project. Not buildings. But a figure. A man, standing alone in the rain, his head tilted slightly to the sky. His expression unreadable. His hands in his coat pockets.
He looked like Adrian.
She didn’t stop.
She added shadows. Streaks of falling water. The subtle curve of his shoulders that always looked like they were bearing more than he let on.
When she was done, she looked at the drawing for a long time. Her heart beat a little faster than she wanted it to.
“Aira.”
She startled. Adrian stood a few feet away.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, eyes falling to her sketchbook.
She quickly closed it.
“I was just... sketching.”
“I saw.” His voice was quiet. “It looked like me.”
She didn’t answer. The silence between them was fragile, like a thread stretched too thin.
“Your talent’s wasted on technical drawings,” he said, trying to ease the tension. “You should do something more expressive.”
“Expressive doesn’t pay bills,” she replied with a soft, hollow laugh.
He smiled faintly. Then, after a pause: “Can I see the whole drawing?”
Aira hesitated. Then opened the sketchbook again, slowly. She let him see it.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
When he finally did, his voice was low. “You see too much.”
She looked up at him.
“So do you,” she said.
It wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession.
Later that evening, the office was empty except for them. The rain had softened into a gentle drizzle.
Aira was packing her bag when she heard Adrian’s voice behind her.
“I’ll drive you home.”
She turned. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
That wasn’t the answer she expected.
She studied him for a moment. His eyes didn’t waver.
She nodded.
The drive was quiet. The city outside was blurry with wet reflections—streetlights dancing on puddles, cars dragging trails of water behind them. Inside the car, warmth hummed softly from the heater.
“I live nearby,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “Just a few blocks away.”
He nodded.
She didn’t give the exact address. Not yet. Not because she didn’t trust him. But because something about the moment felt suspended—neither here nor there. Like they were between pages of a book, and she wasn’t ready to turn the next one.
He stopped the car by a small convenience store near her street.
“This is good,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt. But didn’t open the door.
Adrian’s hands stayed on the wheel, unmoving. He didn’t look at her.
“Thank you for today,” she said.
He nodded once.
She opened the door, felt the cool kiss of rain on her skin, and stepped out.
But before she closed it, she looked back.
“I see too much,” she said softly. “But sometimes I wish I didn’t.”
Their eyes locked.
She closed the door gently.
The car didn’t move until she was out of sight.
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- Writer
