Chapter 4: Of Rainstorms and Revelations

The Cultural Fest arrived with the kind of excitement that made even the most introverted students stay out late.

Stalls sprang up overnight. Banners fluttered from balconies. The courtyard buzzed with music, scent of fried snacks, and whispers of who-was-crushing-on-who. But amidst the noise and glitter, tucked at the far end of the exhibition hall, stood Roots and Ruins—Rhea and Aarav’s collaborative piece.

It looked hauntingly beautiful under the dim lighting.

Visitors walked through the hollow trunk, touched the carved bark, and listened to the audio clips triggered by movement: a child laughing, a voice saying “Don’t go,” the sound of a storm, silence. Some smiled, some paused, some wiped their eyes.

And some didn’t understand it at all.

“Too depressing,” one girl murmured.

“What’s even the point?” her friend shrugged. “Art should make you feel good.”

Rhea stiffened, overhearing.

Aarav noticed and stepped closer. “Ignore them.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just... this meant something.”

“To us. And that’s enough.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t trying to reassure her—he meant it.

Later, as the crowd thinned and the music turned mellow, a sudden downpour hit the campus. Umbrellas popped up like startled mushrooms. Most people dashed for shelter, laughing. But Aarav simply walked out into the rain.

“Are you—?” Rhea started, but he waved her over.

“Come on.”

“I’m not ruining my boots for symbolic nonsense.”

“Then go barefoot.”

She gave him a withering look. Then kicked off her boots.

Together, they ran across the wet courtyard, laughter echoing louder than thunder. The grass was cold, mud squishing between their toes. Rhea couldn’t remember the last time she laughed like that—fully, freely.

Aarav collapsed onto the old bench under their cherry tree, now stripped bare of petals.

“It’s dying,” she whispered, staring at the branches.

“No,” he said. “It’s resting. Even trees need time to rebuild.”

She sat beside him, rain still trickling down her face.

After a moment, she asked, “Why did that note bother you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because it’s true.”

She turned to him, waiting.

“I used to be someone else,” Aarav said. “Before Elmridge. Before I knew how to disappear in plain sight. I got into trouble. Bad decisions. People got hurt.”

His voice was steady, but something inside him wavered.

“I came here to start over. Reinvent myself. But the past… it’s clingy.”

Rhea’s breath caught. Not from fear. But from the rawness in his voice.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not all of it. Just the silence that followed.”

Rhea looked down at her hands. “I know that silence. After my brother died, no one talked about him. Like forgetting would make it less painful.”

They sat there—two people with ghosts on their backs and rain in their hair.

“I’m not good at... opening up,” Rhea said softly.

“Neither am I.”

“Yet here we are.”

He chuckled, low and real. “Strange world.”

She met his eyes. “Strange. But maybe it brought me to the one person who doesn’t expect me to smile when I’m not okay.”