Last couple of months have been very hard for Ayaan. To be honest, not only the past months, but the last couple years. His family had moved to his father’s country about three years ago, but he still feels like an outsider while his little brother is having a great time. Ayaan, on the other hand, has no friends, no interests, nothing… Only this emptiness where he used to have childish joy. He doesn’t know where he belongs anymore.

  Ayaan looks up to the gray sky and feels as empty as the last pieces of snow piled up in the corners of his school’s parking lot. Alone and slowly melting, dying inside. Like the snow he loves so much. It is a shame. He feels guilty for not being grateful for his life.

  It starts to rain without warning. Soft raindrops drums against the school’s roof and the hard, icy pavement. Ayaan stands up from a bench and looks up. Most students are taking shelter inside the school, left for some boys who don't care about getting wet. Classes are starting soon anyway, but Ayaan wants to stay outside: It's raining.

   It's raining!

  “Thank you,” he whispers and let the cold water wet his hair and run over his mouth. He doesn’t care. He is no longer alone. “Thank you.” He repeats, sure that the rain listens.

At home Ayaan slumps over his desk, resting head against his hands. Rain taps gently against the window. The air outside is chill and thick with mist, promising more cold mornings, although it is early spring.

  He opens his notebook. His therapist says he should try to journal about his feelings. She thinks that Ayaan needs to work on self acceptance before self love, but it is hard. Instead of journaling, he is scribbling, letting his pencil dance as he listens to the gentle music of rain, headphones on, but silent. He blushes a little, looking at the almost finished drawing. His therapist would agree that drawing is a great way to express his feelings, not that he would ever show it to anyone, not even his therapist.

  "Ayaan. Mom' s calling you downstairs," his brother Neel walks into his room without knocking.

  Ayaan turns to him, lifting his headphones. "I will be there in a minute or two."

  “What are you doing?” Neel asks, getting curious by the open notebook in the desk.

  “Nothing,” Ayaan shoves the notebook under a pillow on his bed and rushes to the door, headphones still resting on his ears. He closes the door, passing Neel as he makes his way downstairs. Neel stops in the middle of the stairs to stare after him. "What's wrong with you?"

  Ayaan turns around, phone in his hand, “What?” Neel doesn’t answer. He just makes a face and sticks his tongue out before rushing past him to their small kitchen, where their mom stands, thick black hair on a long single braid. She eyes the boys, restless Neel and Ayaan whose eyes are glued to his phone.

  "Neel, wash your hands before eating! And you young man, put that thing aside and wash your hands too.'' Ayaan tucks his phone in his pocket and hugs his mother from behind. "Okay, putting it away, Ma.” 

   Their father is setting the table with meatballs, boiled potatoes, rye bread, and herring, classic Finnish food. It was their father’s turn to cook, so he took the chance to make simple food of his childhood. They all sit at the table, everyone at their usual places, Ayaan next to the window, so he can stare at white birches and almost snowless grass outside.

  "Ayaan," his father says, passing butter to him. 

  "Hm?" Ayaan tears his gaze away from the window to meet his father's green eyes. 

  "Are you still obsessed with rain? It is just like when you were a child.” His father grins at the quirk. “You had this imaginary friend who lived in the backyard and refused to come inside. I often wonder what that was about. See, your brother never had any imaginary friends. But I read somewhere that it’s normal for a child… So there is nothing wrong with that." 

  "Hmm… whatever." Ayaan mutters, ears burning. He doesn't need to hear how ridiculous it is to love something to the point of obsession, even if it is rain or a childhood’s imaginary friend. He knows it’s stupid for a boy of his age to be obsessed with the smell of rain, but he only wishes to be less lonely. Then this all would be easier.

  “Let’s just eat,” his mother soothes, gazing over the table. Ayaan nods, but tries to eat as fast as he can and then rushes to put his dishes away.

  He returns to his room trying to get a little more time with the rain before it stops. His notebook is still there, tucked under a pillow. A shaky breath escapes from his throat when he opens the notebook on the page he had been drawing.

  There it is. Rain. His dear rain, which still caressed the scenery outside. The pavement is shiny under the sunlight that smiles behind the clouds. Ayaan holds the notebook against his chest and presses his temple against the glass, trying to get closer to the rain. Time stands still, quiet and in harmony with the rain. Raindrops drums the roof, the glass, his soul. It is music, symphony; rain is alive. It is alone, lonely, dark, and beautiful. Rain has a beating heart and it is Ayaan's dearest company. 

  He opens the window and allows his hand to get wet. It is divine, almost a religious experience. To touch something you deem as elusive and unreachable as the gods above. But his rain is physical. It can touch his hand, get his shoes wet while walking home from school. But it is there for him. And he is there for it. Everytime without fail.

  "Ayaan!" Neel shouts behind his door. He startles and rushes to hide his notebook under a math book on his desk. “WHAT?” he shouts and glances once more outside the window. He stops. Something is moving in the clouds. A bird? Plane? Superman? He grins.

  It was probably just a trick of the light or a bird. It is early spring, so maybe it was a lonely swan, flying home after a long winter in the Baltic sea. 

***

It started with a small spark, then another. From the clouds a boy could see almost everything. Usually he is everywhere, he is every single raindrop that hits the ground below, he is every mist, every drop of dew. He is every rainbow that appears while the sun conserves with him. He is all the thunderclouds, looming over the countryside, waiting and gaining momentum to strike. He is all the rainwater that finds its way under the ground, to the gardens, many rivers, lakes and seas. He loves rivers, and fears the seas a little; they are vast and unknown and he could never learn how to speak to anything so enormous. Sea never listens. And he loves to listen as he loves to talk. He hears everything. But would it be so hard for someone to listen to him for a while?

  You’re welcome is his new favorite thing to say. It tastes so sweet on his lips. He hears, he listens when people talk to him; every pleading, every curse, every gentle word. He likes gentle words the most. But now… Now something has changed.

  He is no longer the water in the puddles, he is not flying in the air, in the millions of singing raindrops. He is still in the clouds and he is… He is more? He stares at his hands, trembling slightly in front of his eyes. It almost looks like he has a body? But that would be ridiculous! He is rain, rain is he. Rain does not have a physical body like this. He is not supposed to have one.

  “What is happening?”