Eli hated the rain. It reminded him of gray skies, wet socks, and long days stuck indoors. But on the first day of his senior year, it was raining when he forgot his umbrella and sprinted across campus to the art building, drenched and grumbling.
Inside the hallway, he nearly collided with someone hurrying in the opposite direction. The boy wore a sunshine-yellow raincoat and carried an armful of paintbrushes and a canvas twice his size.
“Whoa—careful!” the boy said, laughing as he steadied Eli. “You’re soaked. Want my towel?”
Eli blinked. The boy’s smile was warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds. He had a spatter of turquoise paint on his cheek. His name was Noah.
They started talking. Eli learned that Noah painted landscapes and listened to old jazz records while working late into the night. Noah learned that Eli loved writing poetry but was too shy to share it.
For weeks, the rain kept coming, and each time, Eli found himself looking for flashes of yellow in the crowd. Sometimes Noah would drag Eli into the art studio and hand him a brush. Other times, they’d sit by the window and watch raindrops race down the glass, sharing secrets and laughter.
One afternoon, the rain was particularly heavy. Noah invited Eli to an empty classroom and unveiled a new painting: a city skyline blurred by streaks of rain—but in the center, two boys huddled under a single yellow umbrella, smiling.
“That’s us,” Noah said softly. “I like the rain now, because it brought me you.”
Eli felt his heart stutter. He reached for Noah’s paint-splattered fingers. “I used to hate the rain,” he whispered. “But now…I think it’s beautiful.”
