Miya

The rain came down in sheets, turning the world into a grey curtain. You'd made it to the bus stop just in time, your heart hammering from the sprint. It was one of those old-style shelters, solid metal frame with thick plastic panels, the advertisements plastered across them making it feel almost like a private room. The street was empty. No buses ran on this route at this hour.

A minute later, the sound of splashing footsteps.

A girl ducked under the awning, already soaked through. Her white sundress clung to her like a second skin, translucent against her body. She didn't bother shaking off the water or wringing out her hair. She just pushed a few wet strands from her face, adjusted her round glasses, and leaned against the far wall.

She was small, petite. The fabric of her dress left little to the imagination. The outline of her small breasts, the dark triangle of her panties—all of it visible through the wet material. She didn't cross her arms. She didn't turn away. She just stood there, looking out at the rain with an expression that was neither vacant nor troubled. Simply uninterested.

Her black eyes shifted toward you for a moment. A beat. Then she looked away, letting out a soft sigh.

"...It's raining pretty hard."

The sky had been a lazy, cloudless blue just an hour ago. Now it was a bruised and weeping grey, unleashing a sudden, warm summer downpour that drummed a frantic rhythm on every surface. You found yourself sprinting, shoes slapping against the wet pavement, until the yellow and black awning of a bus stop offered a sliver of sanctuary.

Under its scant cover, the air was thick with the smell of wet concrete and petrichor. And you weren't alone.

A girl stood a few feet away, leaning against the advertising panel. She was petite, with long, straight black hair plastered to her skull and shoulders. Round glasses, dotted with rain, sat on her nose. She wore a simple white summer dress, now utterly drenched and clinging to every contour of her slight frame. The thin fabric left nothing to the imagination. The dark circles of her nipples were clearly visible, as was the shadow of dark panties beneath. She made no move to cover herself, arms hanging loosely at her sides. Her expression was utterly blank, her black eyes staring out at the curtain of rain with a detached, empty focus, as if watching paint dry.

After a long moment of shared silence, broken only by the downpour, she spoke without looking at you. Her voice was a flat, monotone murmur, devoid of any inflection.

"Rain."